Veil of Night

by Linda Howard

  “You come for me?” he asked in an anguished tone. His mother clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

  “No, I only come for bad boys, and from what I can tell, you’re one of the good ones.” Eric ruffled his hair again. “Brave, too. Looks like you’re gonna have a lump on your noggin. If you’re going to play rough, you have to learn how to protect yourself.”

  “But how?”

  Eric stood up, but put his hand on the kid’s little shoulder. “Let me think about this.” Then he said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “I see you’ve got some football fans in your family.”

  Some of the men barked on cue. The kid nodded, and together he and Eric looked to the altar where half a dozen men stood around, waiting for the rehearsal to resume. “I’ll bet you one of them would be happy to buy you a helmet just your size, so the next time you take a header you’ll be protected. Are you going to be a football player when you get bigger?”

  The boy nodded enthusiastically.

  “Yeah, I can see that,” Eric said. “You’re tough. I bet you could play running back, because that’s a tough position.”

  “Quarterback!” the kid said indignantly.

  “You’re kidding? You’re going to play quarterback? Man, that’s really tough. You definitely need a helmet for that.”

  The little chest was puffed up with pride, the tears gone, the lower lip steady. One moment he was screeching as if he’d been scalded, and the next, all was well.

  She was not going to thank him. Yes, Eric had provided a distraction when one was needed, but it wasn’t as if anything dire had been going on.

  The groom promised to buy the kid a football helmet, and said he could wear it to the wedding tomorrow night. That wasn’t exactly the picture Jaclyn had of an elegant wedding, but it wasn’t her wedding, it was theirs. If they were happy, that was all that mattered. She’d get all the kids football helmets if that was what they wanted.

  “Is something wrong?” the mother of the bride warily asked Eric.

  “No, everything’s fine. I’m a friend of Jaclyn’s.”

  Oh, really? Jaclyn clenched her jaw against the retort that bubbled up. The M.O.B. glanced from Jaclyn to Eric, smiled a little, and left them alone.

  The wedding party returned its attention to the matter at hand, the rehearsal. They were already running late, because they’d been having too much fun, and they weren’t going to make it to the restaurant in time for their reservations if they didn’t pick up the pace a lot.

  Jaclyn moved forward a little, got everyone lined up in the correct order, and picked up where they’d left off. She felt Eric move closer, standing right at her back like a rock. She got an itch between her shoulder blades, as if he had drawn his pistol and held it pointed at her. A nightmarish vision swam in front of her eyes: Was he going to question her here? Or worse, arrest her in front of her clients?

  But he just stood there, cool and calm, watching the rehearsal. The minister had everything well in hand, at the moment, so there was nothing more for Jaclyn to do but be present in case she was needed. The previously rambunctious children had, at their mother’s insistence, taken seats on the second pew, where they sat whispering and swinging their legs.

  Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer. “What are you doing here?” she whispered, fiercely resentful.

  “I heard a cry for help and was duty-bound to investigate. Serve and protect, that’s the deal.”

  That wasn’t what she’d meant and he knew it.

  He didn’t haul out the handcuffs or his little notebook, so she relaxed a little. If he wanted to ask her more questions, it looked as if he intended to wait for the rehearsal to be over, so he wasn’t going to embarrass her. If he’d come to arrest her, he wouldn’t be waiting. Probably.

  Dammit, she hadn’t done anything wrong, she thought bitterly, but she was paying a price anyway! Yes, if anyone asked her she’d have to say the world was a better place without Carrie Edwards in it, but that didn’t mean she was a murderer. And right now she’d love to have Carrie back for just a few minutes, so she could give her a real piece of her mind and tell her everything she’d thought but held back during the long months of dealing with her.

  When the rehearsal was over, she walked away from Eric without looking back or saying a word. She said her good-byes to the bride and the bride’s mother, and reminded everyone of the time they’d be meeting tomorrow night. She’d already made her excuses for skipping the rehearsal dinner, and the way the bride and her friends were staring at Eric, they probably thought he was the real reason for skipping the meal.

  As if.

  As members of the wedding party started to leave, Jaclyn turned to see if Eric was standing there twirling his cuffs like the villain in a Saturday-morning cartoon. He wasn’t there. Shocked, she looked around, but didn’t see him anywhere. For a stupid, giddy moment she was hit with mixed relief and disappointment. She pushed the disappointment away and concentrated on the relief, but that still left the question of why he’d been there at all.

  She was the last to leave, except for the minister, who locked the big sanctuary doors behind her. He would let himself out through the back door, where he was parked, after he’d made certain the church was buttoned down for the night. She paused at the top of the steps, taking a quick look around.

  There were still a few cars in the parking lot, others just now pulling onto the street. The happy couple was getting into his red pickup truck, which came complete with Bulldog stickers and flags. No surprise there, she thought. A few parking spaces away sat one bridesmaid’s Toyota; she was taking a moment to refresh her lipstick, while another bridesmaid, sitting in the passenger seat, chattered away. These were happy people, Jaclyn thought, and lucky people. So what if they took their football obsession a bit too far? In the scheme of things, that was nothing. What mattered was that they enjoyed their lives, they didn’t hurt anyone else, and tomorrow they were going to have one great big party.

  The minister’s car was still there, of course, and her Jag—and Eric’s car was parked right beside hers, but he wasn’t in it. No, he was leaning against her Jag, easy as you please, just as he’d been that morning, a bunch of papers rolled up in his hand.

  Jaclyn took a deep breath and walked toward her car, her spine straight and her heart pounding. She’d love to tell him off, to rip into him and vent all the frustration and anger that had been eating at her all day, but she couldn’t. He wasn’t just Eric Wilder, one-night stand gone wrong; he was Detective Eric Wilder, and ripping into him might land her in jail.

  At any other time, the satisfaction might be worth the risk, but not this week; her schedule was just too hectic.

  She stopped in front of him, her key in hand. “Do you have more questions for me, Detective?”

  He sighed, maybe because she’d called him “Detective,” maybe because he was as tired as she was. “Yes, I do. The gray-haired man you saw going into the reception hall yesterday afternoon: Can you give me any more details about him? The make of car? Anything?”

  “No,” she said briefly. “Gray-haired man, silver car. That’s it. I was having a bad day and my mind wasn’t on scanning people in the parking lot. There’s really no reason to harass me while I’m working, Detective. I have your number, and if I remember anything new I’ll call and let you know.”

  “I’m not harassing you.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion.” She jingled her keys as a hint, but he remained where he was, solidly blocking her from getting into the car. He’d probably chosen that position on purpose. Instead of trying to force him out of the way—yeah, like she’d have any luck trying that—or looking desperate by opening the passenger door and inelegantly climbing over the console, she stood her ground.

  Damn him. Looking at him, she couldn’t help but be yanked back to the other night, when he’d made her feel better than she’d felt in years, when he’d made her laugh, made her cry out, made her f
orget everything except being a woman. He’d been a night of escape, a momentary slip, and yet right now she’d give anything to have him tell her that he knew she couldn’t have killed Carrie or anyone else, that he believed in her and would fight for her.

  Yeah, right. She was wasting her time there.

  After a moment of silence, he said, “I have those copies you asked for.”

  “Oh.”

  Well, damn him, how dare he do something nice for her when she had a good mad worked up against him? “Oh” wasn’t good enough; now she had to thank him. Again.

  “Thank you,” she said stiffly, taking the roll of papers he held out to her.

  “I’ll need you to come in tomorrow and look at some photographs—”

  Tomorrow? She was so horrified, thinking of everything they had going on tomorrow—it would be their busiest, most hectic, absolutely insane day—that for a moment her mind went blank and all she could hear was a sort of white noise. Then she felt her mouth move, and what came out of it was: “Look, Studly Do-Right, either arrest me or leave me alone!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?” HE ASKED, HIS TONE STIFLED.

  Jaclyn covered her mouth with her fingers. Oh, God, surely she hadn’t said that out loud! Surely this was a nightmare and she’d wake up in a few minutes nice and snug in her bed, instead of standing with Eric Wilder in an almost deserted parking lot lit only by the stark, weird tones of the sodium vampire security lights, which was nightmare inducing if she’d ever seen anything that was.

  “Studly Do-Right?” he repeated.

  Why couldn’t the pavement just open up and swallow her whole? Why couldn’t she have been struck mute before she opened her mouth? Why couldn’t Eric Wilder have stayed at least sixty miles away from her and never bumped into her in city hall?

  “You can be arrested for hostile acts toward a law enforcement officer,” he said, still in that stifled tone, as if he could barely speak.

  “Then why don’t you arrest me?” she flared, goaded beyond control. She was so angry that she stuck out her hands, wrists together, daring him. “Why don’t you cuff me and drag me to jail right now, huh? Huh? Go ahead! Charge me with the heinous crime of calling you Studly Do-Right, and let’s see you get laughed out of court, Mr. High and Mighty Law Enforcement Officer!” Some moronic woman she didn’t know had taken charge of her body, and her mouth. The same moron thrust her shoulder into the detective, pushing him back. “Go ahead! Arrest me!” Then she lowered her shoulder again and gave him one more shove, just for good measure.

  “Jaclyn,” he said, sounding as if he were strangling. Then he began howling. Literally. Well, not actually baying at the moon or barking like the Georgia fans, but bent over at the waist, red in the face, howling with laughter.

  If she could be sure he wouldn’t charge her with assault, she’d have punted him into next week. “Go away!” she shouted. “I regret ever meeting you! I hope you get scurvy and your teeth fall out! I hope you get rickets! I hope you get beriberi!”

  “You don’t even know what beriberi is,” he managed to say, before going off again.

  “It’s a dread disease that turns you into a stupid jerk man!” She couldn’t remember ever being so beside herself with rage before, and it was all the worse for being so impotent. She couldn’t pick him up and hurl him through a plate-glass window, which would have been hugely satisfying. She couldn’t shoot him or stab him, because she didn’t have any shooting or stabbing weapons. She couldn’t kick him, because she was wearing open-toed pumps and she’d only hurt herself. She couldn’t even hit him with the rolled-up papers, because that wouldn’t do any more damage than swatting a fly. All she could do was yell at him with the mouth that was still under the control of the moron woman she didn’t know.

  “Miss Wilde?” the minister asked hesitantly from several yards away, having left the church by the side door and witnessed her pitching a hissy fit. “Are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not all right!” She stomped her foot, threw her keys on the ground, and would have jumped up and down on them with both feet but at the last second destroying her remote struck her as self-defeating, so she clenched every muscle in her body and screamed a wordless sound of fury.

  Eric was laughing so hard he had to lean against her car for support, his hands braced on his knees. Still whooping, he recovered enough to bend a little farther to pick up her keys, but it took him three tries to actually grab them.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” the minister persisted. He was visibly perturbed, perhaps because he thought there was some threat to her, but more than likely because the ladylike Jaclyn Wilder had turned into a raving maniac in front of his very eyes.

  “Yes!” she roared, and pointed at Eric. “Punch him in the nose! Punch him as hard as you can, and then I’ll feel better.”

  “I can’t do that,” said the minister, aghast.

  “Then don’t volunteer!” She snatched her keys out of Eric’s hand and hit the remote to unlock the door. Some glimmer of sanity was returning to her rage-fogged mind, and it struck her that the best thing she could do was get out of there before she really did end up arrested for something, probably disturbing the peace, because she’d certainly done that.

  Choking and wheezing with laughter, Eric slapped a hand against her car door and prevented her from opening it. “Jaclyn … stop,” he managed to say, his shoulders heaving.

  She pushed her face close up to his and snarled, “Make me.”

  “Oh, God.” He sucked in a huge, shuddering breath, looked at the minister, and said, “Sorry, padre.”

  “It’s okay,” said the minister, smiling a little. “I think I understand.”

  “She’ll see you tomorrow, and she’ll be so calm you’ll think you dreamed this.”

  “I doubt that, but I’ll give it a try. Now, young man, is she going to be all right if I leave her with you?”

  “She will be. I’m not so sure I’ll survive.” He began snickering again.

  “Stop giggling,” Jaclyn snapped. The presence of a third party had given her time to catch her breath, a little, though it hadn’t done a lot to ease her temper. She never lost her temper like this, but she couldn’t think of anyone who had ever made her so angry before. Even when Carrie had slapped her, she hadn’t thrown a full-scale tantrum.

  Eric scrubbed his hand over his face. “Cops don’t giggle. I’m a cop, therefore I don’t giggle.” He was teary-eyed, red-faced, and breathless from laughing so hard. The minister gave them a warm smile—what was up with him?—and walked back to his car, leaving them alone.

  In the deep well of silence that followed, Jaclyn could hear herself breathing hard, too. The unreality of the past five minutes seized her as the cool voice of reason began to make itself heard again. She never acted like that, especially not in public. The way she felt went beyond mere embarrassment; a mixture of horror and sheer mortification froze her in place. She’d been out of control, acting like a child, and she hadn’t been able to stop.

  A buzzing in her ears warned her that she needed to breathe, though she honestly would prefer not to; she’d rather just drop unconscious to the ground and lay there until Eric left. The problem with that was, he wouldn’t leave. He’d stay with her, maybe take off his jacket and put it under her head, call 911, things like that. As uncomfortable as remaining conscious was, it was probably her best option. She gulped in a breath of air. “I’m sorry,” she forced herself to say. She had to clear her throat before she could get the words out. Even then her voice was hoarse and kind of hollow; she didn’t sound like herself at all.

  “That’s okay,” he said lazily, settling his ass against her car again.

  A simple “sorry” wasn’t good enough, she thought fuzzily, not after everything she’d said and done. Her face burned, and her voice took on a ragged edge in addition to the hoarseness as she said, “No, it isn’t okay. The way I acted was appalling. I embarrassed you—”


  “I wasn’t embarrassed. I was entertained. That was one of the best hissy fits I’ve ever seen. For sheer inventiveness, it even tops the time my mom dumped a canister of flour on top of my dad’s head. Mom is more into action. She never would have thought of beriberi.” He crossed his arms and smiled at her; for an instant she was caught in the same tractor beam of chemistry or hormones or pure insanity that had gripped her the first time she’d seen him. She could feel it start dragging her in, which horrified her almost as much as her loss of control. She had to tear her gaze away from his before she could resume her apology.

  Doggedly she plowed on. “Well, I embarrassed myself. I’m truly, deeply sorry.”

  “Jaclyn.” His deep voice flowed over her. “I understand that you’re under a lot of stress. I’m sorry to add to it, but I do need you to look at some photographs.”

  He only thought he knew what her stress level was. “I have a wedding and a rehearsal tomorrow, and I personally have to handle both because Mom has a wedding and a rehearsal, too. We’ll be running from one place to another all day long. I know you can force me to look at photographs instead, I understand that—”

  “Murder trumps weddings,” he pointed out.

  “Making a living is pretty high on the list, too,” she snapped, feeling her self-control begin to fray again. “Besides, I couldn’t identify the man I saw if he were standing next to me.”

  “You don’t know until you try,” he said, straightening from her car and reaching to open the door for her. “Go on home now, and decompress. I’ll be in touch.”

  She got in the car, still clutching the roll of papers. From those parting words, she thought she could safely assume he was going to completely wreck her schedule for the next day.

  Bright and early the next morning, Friday, Eric made it to work without getting involved in any robberies that ate up half his day. The solution was simple: he made coffee at home, scouted around and found an old thermos, and brought his own coffee. When even a McDonald’s drive-through wasn’t safe for his coffee hit, it was time to come up with another way of doing things. He’d make his own damn coffee from now on. God knows he wasn’t having any luck getting good coffee any other way.