He mounted the steps, painted porch boards creaking a little beneath his loafers. Beside the leaded-glass door, a discreet sign announced the shop’s hours. He grasped the doorknob, a solid, bumpy weight in his palm, and turned. A warm, sweet smell washed over him as he stepped inside. A bell jingled with his entrance.
Towering bookshelves, crammed with leather-bound tomes and colorful paperbacks, covered one wall. On tables scattered throughout what must have been a formal parlor lay displays of crystals, jewelry, stoneware, more books. He eased through the room, a frown tugging at him. Somehow, he couldn’t envision Celia here. He had to have the wrong address.
From one table, he lifted a vivid box, his frown deepening. Tarot cards?
“That’s a beautiful deck. The artwork is amazing.” The lyrical voice wafted from the doorway behind a long counter and he did a double take. For a moment, he’d thought the woman was Celia—they looked and sounded that much alike. But something about this woman’s face was softer, more serene, where Celia’s eyes held the edge most law-enforcement officers’ did. That edge had softened somewhat in that autopsy lab this morning and he’d gotten a glimpse of the woman inside. By the time she’d left the office that edge had been solidly back in place.
He’d liked what he’d seen though, of that softer Celia. After she’d disappeared to God-knew-where to work with Cook, the insight had haunted him at the most damnable moments—arguing a motion in chambers, trying to strategize with Rhett. Hell, he’d even found himself looking for her at the end of the day, and not just for an update. He’d wanted to see her.
Celia St. John was driving him certifiable.
The Celia look-alike stared back at him. “Oh. It’s you.”
“I’m sorry, I think I have the wrong house. I’m looking for Celia.”
The clear green eyes—another difference—shuttered. “She’s not here yet. Would you like some tea?”
“Please.” He stepped forward, indicating the shop with a nod. “Nice place.”
“Thank you.” She moved to the end of the counter and set two china cups on the polished wood. “I’m Cicely, by the way. Celia’s sister.”
“A pleasure. I’m—”
“I know who you are.” She lifted her head, her sea-green gaze piercing through him. “Cee lives and breathes her job. Or maybe you hadn’t noticed.”
“I—” He smiled at the nickname and shook his head, taking the delicate cup she offered. He didn’t know enough about Celia beyond the office to realize she might share his workaholic tendencies. “Thanks. Honestly, I hadn’t.”
One of her plucked eyebrows winged upward. “I bet there’s a lot you don’t notice.”
Tom took a sip of the dark tea, the taste of cherries and cinnamon exploding on his tongue. Cicely regarded him steadily. She gestured at the box he’d dropped back on the table. “Are you interested in the Tarot? Would you like a reading?”
He stiffened. “What? Oh, no, that’s fine…I don’t—”
She leaned forward, a mocking glint in her eyes. “Don’t what? Believe?”
Somewhere behind her, in the long dim hallway, a door opened and closed. Familiar footsteps sounded on hardwood and the tension gripping him relaxed.
“Cis?” Celia’s voice wrapped around him, sending a rush of warmth through him. His hand tightened on the cup and he glanced toward the hall, anticipation settling heavy in him. This was ridiculous. He was reacting like a teenager catching a glimpse of his crush. The self-recrimination didn’t lighten the tightness in his chest any.
“In the shop,” Cicely called back.
Moments later, Celia appeared in the squared-off entry. She stopped, staring at him, her face unreadable. An uncontrollable smile quirked at his mouth. God, she looked so different at home. He’d gotten a glimpse of her other fashion side at the crime scene and here was another one—a white cotton camisole top, snug jeans, leather thong sandals with beads and stones. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and he wanted to wrap it around his hand, experience the softness of it, pull her in and cover her mouth with his. A surge of arousal joined the anticipation low in his abdomen.
She moved forward and he shook himself free of the sensual haze. Sadness seemed to drag at her features. Where had she gone after leaving the office, to put that expression on her face? Or was it left over from what they’d witnessed in the autopsy lab that morning? He hadn’t been able to shake the images of the baby’s body all day.
He set the cup aside. “Hello.”
“Hey.” She brushed her hair back, tucking it behind her ears, and joined her sister on the other side of the counter. “Why are you here?”
“I…” The thin silver chain she always wore dipped between her breasts, whatever lay on the chain nestled between them. He tugged his gaze upwards, to the smooth curve of her shoulder then to her eyes, as shuttered as her sister’s. “I needed the file on the Finney case. Raquel thought you might have it, but you’d already left the sheriff’s office and weren’t answering your cell.” My God, he was rambling. Get to the point, man. “I thought I’d run by and pick it up on the way home.”
She nodded. “I didn’t have my cell with me. I’ve got the file next door. I brought it home to review for my testimony.”
A smile slid over Cicely’s face. “We were just having some tea and a chat while he waited.”
A look passed between the sisters and Celia lifted her eyebrows. “Bet that was interesting.”
“Definitely.” Tom tucked his hands in his pockets. He felt like he was outside some inner secret here, almost as if the sisters had some kind of in-joke at his expense. “The file?”
Celia tilted her head toward the hall. “Come on back.”
He followed, eyeing the sway of her hips encased in dark denim. God, she had beautiful curves, from graceful shoulders to her firm breasts, to gently rounded hips and the sweetest ass he’d ever seen. He was bordering on obsession here and she was oblivious. In the dim light, silver winked at him above the low waist of her jeans. Body jewelry. Did she wear that under her pinstripes and silk at the office? A buzz of arousal rippled through his groin. He swallowed hard. She was his employee and he was ogling her behind her back, conjuring up salacious fantasies.
“So you live with your sister?”
“It’s a duplex.” Halfway down the hall, she swung a door inward and stepped through. “We converted it a couple years ago when she opened the shop. She got the big room up front and the right side, I got the left and the attic loft.”
He entered the room after her and immediate peace settled on him, releasing the sensory overload he’d experienced in the shop. “Why the Bell, Candle and Broomstick? Is that symbolic or something?”
“Cis’s tongue-in-cheek sense of humor.” She crossed the room and pulled open a pine armoire, revealing a television and several baskets. She rummaged through one. “I think she actually has an antique brush broom over there somewhere.”
He glanced around. Plush couch, comfy chair, an ottoman—all in rich, touchable fabrics and earthy colors. A collection of photos shared space on a table beneath the window with a large clear globe. He wandered over, eyeing the pictures. Celia and her sister together at various ages, sometimes with a woman who had to be their mother. The glass ball sat on an ornate stand, and he rubbed a hand across the top, his fingers tickling with the contact. “Why a broomstick?”
“She’s a psychic who gives readings and runs a new-age shop. Around here, that translates to ‘witch’. Please don’t touch that.”
He jerked his hand back and whirled, a flush heating his face. “Sorry. I shouldn’t—”
“No, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s been a long couple of days and I shouldn’t take that out on you.” She hugged the folder to her chest, an array of expressions chasing over her features. For a slow moment, he sensed she struggled with a silent decision then she relaxed. “It was my mother’s. I’m a little protective of it.”
He glanced back at the globe, remembering the Taro
t deck, then looked at her once more. “Do you…ah…I mean, are you…”
“Able to see into the future? Discern what the stars might hold?” A wicked smile lit her face and she laughed, the genuine sound relaxing him all over again. She had a beautiful laugh, one he didn’t hear around the office all that often. “No. Why? Did Cis make you nervous?”
A puff of laughter escaped him. “A little.”
“She has that effect on people sometimes. I think it’s the eyes. She has this way of—”
“Looking inside you.” He’d seen Celia do the same thing with suspects, though, reading them, reading the situation.
“Exactly.” She shook her head, her grin turning conspiratorial. “And by the way, she’s not a witch. So no worries that she cursed you with her tea or anything.”
He edged a finger along the wrought-iron table. He should take the file and go, not continue standing here, looking at her, feeling relieved that the tension between them had diminished, wanting this conversation to go on and on. Not delve into her mysteries the way he craved. What he should do was keep everything on a professional footing before he got himself into major trouble.
His impulses refused to listen to his rational brain. “You’re very close, aren’t you?”
She caressed the edge of the folder, a winsome expression on her face. “We are. Can’t imagine my life without her.”
He nodded. “It’s good that you have someone like that.”
Her hand drifted up to fiddle with the chain about her neck. He followed the movement with his eyes, wondering again what hid between her breasts at the end of the delicate links. She tilted her head to the side, hair shifting over her bare shoulder. “What about you? Any siblings?”
“No, I’m an only child.” This was getting too personal, too much like first-date-getting-to-know-you talk. Time to make an exit. He moved forward and extended his hand. “I should be going. I’ve taken enough of your evening.”
“Of course.” Her expression closed, her eyes going cool again. She held out the folder. “This is what you came for.”
“Thanks.” He took it, fingers brushing hers in the process, a prickling warmth spreading up his arm. Yep. Definitely obsessive. Definitely time to go. Swallowing, he saluted her with the folder. “See you in the morning.”
He strode to the door, intent on showing himself out.
“McMillian.” Her voice, soft and a little strangled, stopped him.
He glanced back. She leaned against the plush armchair’s back. Silver glinted at him again along her narrow waist. “Yes?”
She pushed her hair behind her ear again. “Have you eaten?”
“No, not yet.”
“Would you like to stay for dinner?”
Dinner followed by breakfast tomorrow morning. He passed a hand over his hair. “Celia, it’s not a good idea for us to—”
“Do you take the high road in everything you do?” Her chin tilted in clear challenge.
No. He possessed gray areas even he didn’t want to admit to. “We work together. Any kind of involvement would be…difficult.”
“It’s a simple dinner invitation, not a lifelong commitment. And working with you now is beyond difficult,” she muttered.
He frowned. “What does that mean?”
Her knuckles whitened where she gripped the edge of the chair back. “It means…” Her eyes slid closed and opened, something he’d never before seen in her gaze burning in the blue depths when she looked at him. “I want you.”
The words slammed into him, a punch to the gut, and he tried to process what she was saying. “Celia…”
“I want you and it’s driving me crazy.” She blew out a long breath and ran her hands through her hair, mussing it. “Obviously. God, I can’t believe I’m saying this.”
He couldn’t either, but damn if he was going to blow this. Holding her gaze, he advanced on her to stop inches away. He dropped the folder on a side table and it slid to the floor, papers spilling across the polished wood. He wrapped his hands over hers and leaned in, close enough to see her pupils dilate. She smelled clean and uniquely female—no perfume, simply a mingling of her soap with the pure scent of her skin.
Desire pulsed through him, a buzzing ache starting in his groin and beating out along his veins. “I’m glad you did.”
She stared at him for a long heartbeat before lifting her chin once more, fitting her mouth to his. Sensation exploded in him, awareness of the warm suppleness of her lips, the fine bones of her hands beneath his, the incredible heat of her form along his. She kissed him, a soft brush of lips, followed by a firmer caress. He held her hands tighter and kissed her back, teasing the line of her mouth, coaxing her to open to him.
With a soft exhale, she did, the tip of her tongue slipping along his mouth. He pushed closer, hips fitted into hers, trying to assuage the throbbing below his belt. He groaned. “God, I can’t believe the way you taste.”
She arched into him, her fingers flexing below his. “Kiss me again.”
He did, dipping his tongue into her sweet depths, pressing her against the chair. His growing erection strained along his zipper, a literal ache coursing through him. The only thing that was going to soothe that was being inside her, thrusting into her wetness, feeling her close about him.
Maybe being with her would help him forget the memories haunting him—the ones aroused by Kathleen’s pregnancy and dealing with this case.
A fantasy flared to life in his brain while her tongue tangled with his—opening his fly, sliding those tight jeans of hers down just enough to bare that beautiful ass, bending her over the plush chair, driving himself inside her.
Her hands fluttered beneath his palms and she pulled her mouth free, her head falling back. “God, yes,” she moaned. “I want that too.”
Too? He blinked, some of the desire-laden fog clearing from his brain. “What do you mean?”
She smiled, eyes closed, absolute abandon on her face. “Over the chair.”
How did she know that? He released her hands and stepped back, his gaze darting to the crystal ball by the window. The matter-of-fact way she’d announced her sister was a psychic beat in his head. Unease slithered through him. “I’m sorry.”
Her lids snapped up. “For kissing me?”
He took another backwards step, his desire extinguished. A familiar chill gripped him, raising gooseflesh on his arms. “This was a bad idea. We can’t do this.”
“McMillian—”
“I’ll see you in the morning.” He needed to get out of here. He bent to gather the file and its myriad reports scattered on the floor.
“Are you even going to tell me what went wrong?” Uncertainty hovered in her voice.
He didn’t look up. “It’s just not a good idea.”
With a snap, he tapped the papers against the floor and shoved them into the folder. He glanced at her as he rose and wished he hadn’t. She worried her swollen bottom lip with her teeth, watching him, her eyes soft and bruised. He tucked the file beneath his arm and nodded. “I’ll show myself out.”
—
The door closed behind him. Celia dug her fingers into the thick upholstery and swallowed against a wave of hurt and disappointment. What had she done wrong? He’d been as into that kiss as she’d been. She’d felt every inch of his erection pressed into her, had restrained herself from rubbing against him to ease the desire flowing through her. There’d been such a strong connection between them. Hadn’t she seen what he wanted to do to her—
Seen?
She froze. No, it couldn’t be. She didn’t…she wasn’t…
No. Absolutely not. She hadn’t been seeing his fantasy. It had to have been her own, where she wanted that kiss to go. Lord only knew what she’d done to scare him off. Come on too strong. Or maybe…oh hell.
That wasn’t her fantasy. She’d clearly seen it from his perspective, not her own. Maybe she was just going crazy. The sexual frustration, the wanting him, had finally pushed her over the e
dge.
She’d propositioned her boss.
Her lungs stopped working. She’d risked everything—her position, her professional reputation—with that stupid I want you. What the hell had she been thinking?
She hadn’t been.
That was the problem. She’d been feeling, lost in the absolute incredibleness of actually touching him, kissing him, arching against him.
She had to face him in a staff meeting tomorrow morning.
With a groan, she covered her eyes with trembling fingers. Damn. This was worse than the freaking sex-toy debacle, than having him think she was involved with Cook. She needed a drink. A strong one. Maybe more than one. Pushing away from the chair, she walked through to Cicely’s side of the house.
She found her sister sitting at the counter, closing out the shop’s paperwork for the day. Celia folded her arms on the counter edge and sighed. “Hey.”
Cicely slid her an inquisitive glance. “Your guy hightailed it out of here like the hounds of hell were after him.”
Oh, that made her feel better. “He’s not my guy.”
“Need to talk?” Cicely made a neat stack of ones and began counting.
“Not right now.” Celia levered away from the counter and walked along the wall, perusing the books. She knew she’d seen a volume on it here somewhere. A red leather cover, faded gilt lettering. “Maybe later. You want to go get a drink when you’re finished?”
“Sure.”
Celia floated her fingertips over the spines. She frowned. It wasn’t here.
“Cee?” Cicely’s soft voice drew her attention and she glanced over her shoulder. “What are you looking for?”
Celia shrugged as a spurt of foolishness filled her. “You had a book on the Gift.”
“Sold it two days ago. It’s out of print and I’m watching eBay for a replacement.” Cicely wrapped a rubber band around the bills. “Why are you looking for that, anyway?”
Celia smiled, feeling sheepish. “The weirdest thing just happened.”
“With McMillian?”
“Yes.” She rubbed the links of her necklace between her thumb and forefinger. “I kissed him, and I thought, well, I thought he was as involved as I was. I swear I could see what he was thinking about us.” She laughed. “I was thinking about you and Mama, wondering if maybe I picked up a little of the Gift after all.”
Memories of Us Page 5
