B007S2Z1KC EBOK Page 6

  “Well.” She tried to think of something constructive to say. Failing that, she stood. “I’ll leave you to get on with your meeting, then.”

  Angling out of her chair to avoid brushing against Matt’s broad torso, she almost fell over his legs and between his thighs. Her stomach contracted. His strong hand gripped her forearm and dragged her up. She inhaled sharply. Lord, but he smelled good. He must have come straight from his shower. The smell of soap and a suggestion of aftershave overlaid the basic scent of healthy male. A tiny nick near the corner of his mouth called attention to his full bottom lip. She had a sudden impulse to kiss it and make it better.

  She jerked away. The hand on her arm tightened briefly before Matt politely released her and stepped back.

  “Don’t go, Clare,” Reverend Ray said.

  She couldn’t possibly stay.

  Matt hitched his thumbs in his belt loops and shrugged. “Yeah, don’t let me chase you away. Finish your discussion. I can wait outside.”

  She couldn’t possibly leave, either. Matt was being remarkably restrained about her lapse. Hamstrung detective. Clare winced. She had to make amends somehow. She had to pull herself together.

  “What a good idea,” she approved brightly. “You go lurk in the hall, and I’ll say nice things about you in a really loud voice, and then you can come in and we’ll start over.”

  Laughter leapt in his eyes. Satisfaction filled her. He kept a straight face, though.

  “I’m six foot three, sugar, and a police officer. I don’t lurk.”

  Reverend Ray smiled. “Never went undercover, Sergeant Dunn?”

  “Naw. They told me I wasn’t inconspicuous enough.”

  “Imagine,” Clare murmured.

  He sent a grin her way that would have toppled her in the hall in high school. It still had the power to wobble her knees.

  “That’s the trouble with small-town brass. No imagination. I could’ve disguised myself as a telephone pole.”

  Judiciously, she nodded, enjoying his teasing. “Or put a flashlight on your head and patrolled as a street lamp.”

  “Now there’s a bright idea.”

  The reverend tutted at the pun. Clare groaned. A corner of Matt’s mouth turned down in an expression of contrition that only made him look more pleased with himself, like a fox caught with feathers in its mouth. She felt another sharp tug of liking.

  “I really should go,” she said.

  “But Sergeant Dunn has that information you need,” the minister objected.

  “What information?”

  “She needs my phone number?” Matt asked.

  “No, I do not need your phone number.” She looked over as the reverend cleared his throat. “Do I?”

  “Mm-hm. For those flyers. The reception is for the sergeant, Clare, to introduce him to the neighborhood. He came by last week explaining he wanted a chance to meet everybody and asked if I’d help get the word out to my congregation.”

  She felt light-headed, as if Matt’s big body had absorbed all the oxygen in the room. He’d sought out Reverend Ray to introduce him around? No wonder he’d declined her help.

  “I was going to use the firehouse,” Matt interjected, “but the reverend here tells me it’s off the bus line.”

  “Yes,” she said absently. She’d misjudged him, all right. She felt like a low and slimy slug.

  The minister lowered himself back in his chair, oblivious to the emotional undercurrents in the room. Or maybe, Clare thought he was giving her time to recover. “And I told him to use the hall here. We’ve got the space, we’ve got the people, and we’ve got Alma.”

  “Alma?” Matt repeated.

  “My wife,” Reverend Ray said, simply and with pride. “She likes to organize things.”

  Matt shifted restlessly. “Look, I don’t want you going to a lot of trouble. I thought we’d keep this informal, something people can drop in on. I’d like to meet as many area residents as I can in a relaxed setting. Ideally, I’d invite everybody to the house—”

  He didn’t call it his house, Clare noted. It wasn’t home.

  “—but there isn’t enough room, and strangers might feel awkward stopping by this first time.”

  The minister nodded. “I’m announcing it as a church social. Outsiders welcome, of course. The food will draw a lot of people.”

  “That’s another thing. You need to let me handle expenses for refreshments, Reverend.”

  “No, no. Alma won’t hear of it. She’s making fried chicken.”

  “I can’t let you do that. I would’ve sprung for the food if the meeting was at my place.”

  Clare decided to step in before he offended the pastor’s pride by rejecting his congregation’s kindness. She had to make amends somehow for her earlier quick judgment. It wasn’t Matt’s fault he affected her like the sun’s heat after a frost. “It’s like the team giving you a hand moving in, Matt. The ladies in the church are willing to throw you a dinner.” She hoped he got the message.

  He rubbed his jaw. “Okay. Fine. Thanks. I’ll pay for the beer, though.”

  Reverend Ray pursed his lips. “I’m afraid not.”

  Dark brows snapped together. “Why the he—heck not? Oh.” He shook his head over his own obtuseness. “No alcohol, right? For the iced tea. I’ll pay for the iced tea. Soft drinks. Maybe lemonade for the kids?”

  “Everybody likes lemonade,” Clare assured him.

  ***

  I don’t, Matt almost said but stopped himself in time. He didn’t want to lose his tentative rapport with the reverend. And after her response to his confessed dislike of vegetables, he was damned if he’d hand little Miss Clare another opportunity to bedevil him. The last thing he needed was to open his front door and find Richie standing on the porch with an ice-cold pitcher of the sweet yellow stuff.

  “And we mustn’t forget Clare’s Jell-O mold,” the reverend said heartily.

  “Jell-O mold?”

  Reverend Ray chuckled. “A little joke. Clare can’t cook.”

  Fascinated, Matt watched as betraying color stained her cheeks. He wouldn’t have guessed she was sensitive about a lack of domestic skills. In her focus on her project, she’d seemed so formidable, so clear-sighted, so assured.... Less Tinkerbell than Joan of Arc in blue jeans. Her unexpected vulnerability tickled him.

  Just to test her, to tease her, he asked, “Can’t cook? Not at all?”

  And was rewarded when she snapped, “I can boil water, wash salad and stir-fry vegetables. Want to come over for dinner some time?”

  He wanted to stay away from her. He’d planned on staying away from her. He didn’t want the aggravation, he couldn’t afford the complication of a woman’s demands and disappointments in his life right now. So naturally, her impulsive challenge provoked an equally instinctive response.

  “All right,” he answered smoothly. “Tomorrow okay with you? I’ll bring the steaks.”

  Her pretty mouth opened like a gaping bass. She closed it. To his intense masculine satisfaction, he thought he saw her swallow.

  “Fine,” she said coolly. “Seven o’clock.”

  She turned from him. “I really do have to run, Reverend Ray. Do you want to get back to me on those flyers?”

  “No, you take this.” The minister pushed a lined yellow sheet across the desk. “And Sergeant Dunn can give you his phone number.”

  She lifted her eyebrows in silent question.

  “My pager number,” Matt explained. “Whether people come to this dinner at the hall or not, I want them to be able to reach me.”

  “So, you’re going to post it in the neighborhood. That’s a wonderful idea.”

  Her smile was warm with approval. He felt it ignite in his gut and bum lower down. To banish it, he said, “Standard procedure. Or it will be, once this program’s up and running.”

  He scrawled the number at the bottom of the page. She folded the sheet without reading it, sliding it into her hip pocket. Reflexively, his hand curled. Just loo
king at her made him want.

  He could stay with the preacher. He liked the man and needed to talk with him. Or...

  “I’ll walk with you,” he said. It was only a couple of blocks. He could make two blocks.

  She gave his own words back to him. “It’s not necessary. Besides, aren’t you meeting with Reverend Ray now?”

  The older man spread his hands in a little gesture of letting go. His face was bland; his voice amused. “Y’all run along. We’re done. I just wanted the sergeant’s number. And I think I’ve got it now.”

  Matt cocked his head, acknowledging the gentle gibe. “Thanks for your time, Reverend.”

  He went into the hall as Clare said her goodbyes, and out the front door. By the time she joined him, he’d negotiated the shallow steps and was propping up the redbrick side of the church, cataloging the action on the street. The elderly woman with her steel-on-wheels carrier creaking along the sidewalk was grocery shopping. Two girls with babies on their hips and toddlers hanging on their hands meandered past the laundromat. A boy flashed by on a bicycle.

  Matt studied the knot of men blocking the sidewalk in front of the convenience store. They glanced over, nodded, spat. Corner regulars passing the time, he wondered, or pushers fixing a deal? A beat cop would know. He felt crippled, not just by his injury, but by his lack of familiarity with the neighborhood. The who’s-doing-what-where, as his dad used to say. You had to know that. You had to recognize trouble, anticipate it.He should never have been pegged for this job. Except the mayor had wanted a high profile for his new program, and after the convenience store stickup Matt had the highest profile on the force.

  An older guy in a button-down shirt with his name embroidered on the pocket came out of the store and lit a cigarette. The owner, Matt guessed. He exchanged greetings with the men clustered around his doorway, calling some by name. So they were regulars. Matt settled against his post.

  Clare bounced down the church office steps in worn athletic shoes. Her smile was a flicker of courtesy, friendly, but guarded. That suited him fine, Matt told himself, ignoring the way every muscle in his body tightened at her approach. The lady had serious involvement written all over her, and he was strictly the just-for-laughs type. He didn’t want a widow with baggage, and she didn’t need a cop whose closest thing to a personal relationship since his partner’s retirement were twice-weekly sessions with a physical therapist.

  “Let’s go,” she said, and started briskly down the crumbling sidewalk.

  He pushed off the wall and lumbered after her like a three legged Great Dane in pursuit of a Chihuahua. She was six yards ahead of him before she realized he wasn’t keeping up and figured out why. Without saying a word, she adjusted her stride.

  Tactful, Matt thought, and tried like hell not to resent his need for her tact.

  They kept pace, more or less, down the block of storefronts with apartments over the street, past the service station where some kid with a can of black spray paint and no supervision had scrawled the Vipers’ mark over and over an upside down V, trailing a devil’s tail and a pitchfork. The sidewalks narrowed. Skimpy yards and bare-branched trees squeezed in between the shabby houses and lines of parked cars. Matt stumbled over a break in the concrete where tree roots had raised the sidewalk. Instantly, Clare’s slim arm was there to brace him.

  He caught himself before he fell into her. He wanted to reject her help, but her nearness socked him like a punch in the gut. Up close, he could read the concern on her clear-skinned face, smell her soap and the shampoo that she used.

  Baby scented. Under his hand, her skin was baby soft. Her arm was fine-boned but strong, lightly tanned and gently marked by her labor in the sun. What had his mother called those little freckles? Angel kisses, he remembered. He ran his thumb over the smooth skin, as if to rub them away, and felt her shiver.

  Support was one thing with her, he realized. She was used to offering support. It was the man-woman tension between them that made her pull away.

  “You should have taken the bus,” she said crossly.

  “If I wanted to drive, I’ve got my truck. Besides, you said I should walk in the neighborhood.”

  She flushed. “Not if it’s going to interfere with your getting better.”

  “It won’t. I’m supposed to walk.” Not this far, though. Not yet

  They started down the sidewalk again, her steps small and careful, his slow and stiff.

  She cleared her throat. “How did it happen?”

  So, she hadn’t read about it in the paper, hadn’t heard it on the news. He was glad. The media accounts were bull. He hadn’t been a hero, just unlucky.

  “I got careless.”

  Her clear brown eyes saw right through his evasion. “I thought you got shot.”

  He shrugged.

  “How long ago?” she persisted.

  Two miserable months. The wound had actually closed when the damn thing got infected. He’d spent three additional weeks in the hospital, making repeated trips to OR to get the wound incised and drained and inserted with antibiotics, while he squeezed a PCA pump, trying to control his pain with metered doses of morphine. Trying to joke with his dad while his mother cried in her chair by the window and Will hovered in the hallway looking guilty.

  He almost told her about it. The temptation to tell her scared him.

  “Couple of months.” He glanced up the street. Another block, he thought. He could make one more block.

  “Is that why you didn’t walk me to your door the other day?”

  She sounded indignant. He grinned. “Yeah.”

  “Macho jerk,” she said, without heat.

  He liked her scolding better than her discreet silence or her sympathetic questioning.

  “So, do you mind telling me what prompted this stroll?” she asked.

  She was so damn pretty, he thought. Not really beautiful, not well turned out or well endowed like the women he usually dated. She lifted her head as they passed under the gnarled canopy of some old tree, giving him an unobstructed view of her face. The pale spring sun, striking through the branches, dappled her small, even features, gilding her hair and glistening on her bare lips.

  He couldn’t tell her he just wanted to be with her. She wouldn’t understand. He didn’t understand it himself.

  “I’m a glutton for punishment?” he suggested.

  “Obviously,” she retorted, with a pointed look at his leg. “But why now, specifically?”

  He gave her the truth. Not the whole truth, but enough to honor her perception. “I wanted to check on your new hire. That kid, Tyler.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “He didn’t stick around?”

  “He did. I thought you weren’t planning to.”

  “And I thought you asked me to come by occasionally.”

  “To keep an eye on Richie, I said. Not keep tabs on me.”

  “Get used to it,” he advised.

  They were nearing the project lot. She swung to face him, her hands planted on her hips.

  “Look,” she said. “I don’t know who you’re used to riding herd on, cowboy, but...”

  Her attention slipped past him to her lot. Her voice died. Her mouth trembled before she bit down on the lower lip, hard.

  Matt turned, already feeling the hunch that signaled trouble, the adrenaline rush of action. He followed her stare over furrowed rows of pale green leaves and piled straw to the muddy pool spreading by the gray-sided shed.

  He didn’t know enough about gardens to be sure how the plot should look, but he’d seen enough vandalism to know it shouldn’t look like this.

  The spigot attached to the shed had been turned on full. The nozzle to the hose had been opened and left running. The first bursts of water from the writhing hose had blasted more than a dozen plants right out of the ground. They lay in draggled, muddy clumps, roots exposed and leaves limp. Anchored in its own growing pool, the hose still fed a destructive stream of water over the sodden rows, upro
oting some plants, drowning more.

  For a short moment, Clare stood frozen over the destruction like Lot’s wife looking back on Gomorrah. He was familiar enough with victims’ reactions that the expression on her face shouldn’t have torn him up inside. But it did.

  Cursing, he stumped forward to twist the faucet shut.

  As if his voice had released her to action, Clare hurried forward, seizing a short-handled spade balanced against the wall to scoop up globs of thick red mud.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Ditch,” she panted. “Drain off the water.”

  It made sense. He gave her credit for quick thinking even as he sloshed into the shed—the unlocked shed, he noted disapprovingly—and selected a man-size shovel. A pickax would be even better, but he didn’t trust his balance on his gimpy leg. He worked behind her, focusing on action to take his mind off her pain, deepening the channel while she directed the path of the stream. Released, the water coursed between their feet to spill harmlessly over her driveway. Behind them, the carefully set out plants slumped in uneven lines, swamped by water, weighted by mud or shriveled by the sun.

  The simple act of vandalism had done a lot of damage in a relatively short time.

  “Clever of somebody,” Matt remarked.

  Clare’s head jerked up. She had control of herself again, he saw. Her face was pale, but calm. “It was an accident.”

  He scraped mud off his boots with the tip of his shovel. His right leg throbbed. “Yeah, right.”

  “It had to have been. Someone just forgot to turn off the hose.”

  Who was she trying to convince? Him or herself?

  “Uh huh. What about the graffiti?”

  “What? Where?”

  He pointed to the shed, the side facing her house. Screened by the bushes that separated her yard from the lot, somebody had taken the time to spray the signature V of the Vipers.

  She said a word he’d never have guessed she knew.

  The incongruity of that coarse word on her soft pink mouth made him want to laugh. He squelched it and grunted his agreement. “You want me to look into it for you?”