Memories of Us

by Linda Winfree

  Her lashes dipped and she worried her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment. When she opened her eyes, he caught a glimpse of the bruised look he’d seen there the night before. A cold lump settled in his gut, wistfulness for something lost or carelessly thrown away curling through him.

  She straightened, staring him down. “I really need to go home and change if you expect me to make your meeting on time.”

  He stepped away, ran a hand over his hair. “Celia, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  “No.” A pensive smile curved her mouth and disappeared. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I’ll see you at nine.”

  Head high, she walked by him into the hallway.

  With the knot still holding residence in his belly, he closed his eyes. God, he was a stupid son of a bitch.

  —

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  Celia rested her forehead against the shower wall and pounded her fist on the tile. Stupid to tell him she wanted him. Stupid to let him get to her all over again. Stupid to be this wound up in a man.

  Any man.

  “Enough.” She lifted her head, water streaming over her, and wiped her face. And why the vague sense of disappointment? What had she expected? She’d dangled sex in front of a man. How was he supposed to react? Ask to get to know her better before she spread her legs for him? Jesus above, she was so incredibly stupid. Like a naïve virgin, expecting more.

  She didn’t want more.

  She swallowed, the humiliation twisting and striking in her belly like an angry snake. Was this what her mother had experienced, over and over and over again?

  When would she finally get the idea that men were all alike? A woman couldn’t trust them and they only wanted one thing. If her mother’s men hadn’t proved that, Turello certainly had. How many times did she have to have proof of that before it sank in?

  What was wrong with her? The worst part was, pressed against that desk, looking up into his hungry gaze, she’d still wanted him. Wanted to strip off his jacket and tie, peel away her jeans and let him have her, right there, screw the consequences. She closed her eyes.

  Damn it all.

  As far as her self-respect balance went, she was seriously overdrawn.

  She still had to sit in that meeting, listen to him, look at him. Face him. Tears welled and she sucked them down.

  Pushing her hair from her face with one hand, she turned off the water with the other. A handful of drops pattered onto the tile floor and she swung the door open, grabbed a towel and stepped out.

  Her phone was ringing.

  Hell, like she wanted to talk to anybody right now. With the towel wrapped around her dripping form, she hustled to the bedroom and grabbed the cordless phone. “Hello?”

  “What took you so long?” Cook’s voice rumbled against her ear.

  She dropped on the side of the bed. “I was in the shower.”

  “Really?” His tone turned to wicked glee. “What are you wearing?”

  “A chastity belt. And I threw away the key.” She closed her eyes, disgusted. More proof that all men were the same. “What do you want?”

  “We have autopsy results. Message was on my desk when I got in this morning. Ford’s a damn tease, so there weren’t any details.”

  She couldn’t find any level of excitement. “Great. Are you going to Moultrie?”

  “I thought we’d go to Moultrie, as soon as you got your lazy ass in gear.”

  “Can’t.” She pushed up from the bed and crossed to her closet. “I have a staff meeting.”

  “Play hooky.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Temptation is my middle name, St. John.”

  An unwilling smile tugged at her lips. She pulled her navy suit from the rail. “So that’s what the T stands for.”

  He chuckled. “Come on, you know you’d rather hang out in an autopsy lab with me than sit around listening to McMillian talk.”

  He had no clue how right he was. She sighed. “Can you wait an hour and then go?”

  “I really didn’t want to. I have warrants to serve later. Tell you what—I’ll even buy you breakfast at El Toreo’s.”

  She smiled again, the ache around her heart not lifting. Too bad she didn’t want him. He’d be a fun date. She shook off the musings and reached for her spectator slingbacks. Besides, what was more important right now? Finding out where that baby belonged, giving a parent closure, or following McMillian’s office rules?

  She lifted underwear from its basket. “You’re on. Give me twenty minutes.”

  —

  The GBI office was relatively quiet. They picked up visitor badges at the reception desk and ventured back to the autopsy lab. The heavy disinfectant didn’t quite mask the smells of blood and decay.

  Cook pushed the door open. “Ford?”

  She emerged from her small office, already clad in scrubs, a surgical cap printed with dancing dinosaurs covering her hair. “Figured I’d see you two this morning.”

  A tingle of anticipation ran through Celia. “So?”

  Ford crossed to the table which bore a small sheet-draped figure and pulled the fabric away. Celia cringed at the Y-shaped incision on the baby’s tiny chest, the stitches raw and angry. Ford passed Cook a sheet of paper. “So you don’t have a homicide.”

  “What?” His gaze jerked to the report. Surprised, Celia glanced over his shoulder.

  She looked up at Ford. “Natural causes?”

  Ford nodded. “A congenital heart defect.”

  Cook frowned. “And with medical intervention?”

  “Barring a transplant, that baby would have died within days of birth, just as she did. This is interesting, though.”

  Celia followed Ford’s finger, eyeing the baby’s navel, a remnant of the umbilical cord still attached, tied off with white cotton string. “What?”

  “I think you have a home birth. In fact, it has to be, or this baby would never have been allowed to leave the hospital. The umbilical cord? Cut with scissors.”

  Cook shrugged, unimpressed. “What else would you cut it with?”

  “Surgical scissors. This was cut with an instrument much less precise. See how jagged the edges are above the clamped area?”

  “Yeah.” Cook sighed and rubbed a hand over his neck. “How does that help us?”

  “Find the scissors, find the roll of string, and I can tell you if it was the instrument that did the cutting.”

  He held the report aloft. “Mind if we take this with us?”

  Ford waved a hand at him. “Your copy. Be my guest.”

  Celia followed him outside. The morning already held a sultry promise of afternoon heat to come. She ran a finger along her necklace. “We’re not any closer to the answers, Cook. What was Doe doing with that baby? Where did she come from?”

  He tugged a pack of gum from his pocket and extended it in her direction. She shook her head and he popped a piece in his mouth. He chewed, brow wrinkled in a thoughtful look. “Well, we have a couple of possibilities.”

  “What?”

  Her cell phone pinged, forestalling her answer. She tugged it from her waistband, stomach falling when she glanced at the display. McMillian’s private line.

  Oh hell. She really didn’t want to talk to him.

  Celia lifted the phone to her ear. “St. John.”

  “Got your message from Raquel.” Papers rustled behind McMillian’s terse voice. “What did the ME say?”

  With a suppressed sigh, Celia slid into the passenger seat. “The baby wasn’t murdered. She died of natural causes.”

  “SIDS?” His voice tightened and she didn’t miss the pain winding through the single syllable. She steeled herself against a spurt of sympathy. She didn’t need to feel any soft emotions for him.

  She glanced at Cook as he settled behind the wheel and fitted the key in the ignition. His jaw remained as taut as her nerves felt. The radio beeped, static crackling. “No. A congenital heart defect.”

  “All rig
ht.” More paper rustling, and she pictured him standing behind his desk, phone propped under his chin while he pulled court papers together. “I’m headed out to Darren County. I’d like to see you this afternoon before you leave.”

  Her stomach plummeted. “Sure.”

  “Good. We need to talk.”

  The line went dead and she snapped the phone closed, letting her head drop forward with a muffled groan. Cook laughed. “Let me guess. You’ve been summoned to the principal’s office.”

  Worse. She could just imagine what McMillian thought they needed to talk about. Her face burned. She straightened and blew out a long breath. “You’re a bad influence, Cook.”

  “You’re just now figuring that out?”

  A strand of hair, escaped from her loose knot, tickled her cheek, and she brushed it away. “You said something about why Doe had this baby in his car? Which, by the way, we still don’t know was his car, because it belongs to a nonexistent person. God, we’ll never sort this case out.”

  “Are you done?” He pulled into traffic. “I’ve been thinking about that, you know, possible reasons why he’d have the kid if it wasn’t his. The most unpalatable? Kiddy porn. Or the sex trade.”

  She shuddered. That possibility had occurred to her as well. “Give me another option.”

  “Black market for human organs.”

  “I think that one’s an urban legend, Cook.”

  He shrugged. “Still gotta consider it. And there’s always adoption.”

  “Like he was the adoptive parent?”

  “Like an illegal baby ring. Gray market adoptions.” He glanced over his shoulder before changing lanes. “White newborn, desperate parents with lots of money. Tick and his wife are looking at adoption routes and the process is huge. I can see someone wanting to buy their way around that.”

  She tapped her phone against her lips. “That’s a possibility. So if there are no legal adoption papers, what do they do about a birth certificate?”

  “I don’t know. Buy one? Call it a home birth? You’re the one who works for a shyster. Ask McMillian.”

  “I will, this afternoon. Maybe the Florida Department of Law Enforcement will have something on a missing baby, since the GBI hasn’t turned up anything—”

  “Ford said something about a home birth, remember?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Somebody has to supervise that, right?”

  She laughed. “You’re asking me? How would I know? Besides, if I ever have a kid, it’ll be in a hospital, with a doctor and lots and lots of drugs. But I think most women who do a home birth have a midwife or something similar.”

  Cook nodded. “We find that midwife…”

  “And we find our parents.”

  —

  “McMillian?”

  Celia’s voice washed over him and Tom glanced up from the case-law update. The cascade of relief at her appearance startled him. It was late, after six, and with the office empty and quiet, he’d almost given up on seeing her.

  He pulled off his reading glasses and laid them aside. “Come on in.”

  She took two steps inside and stopped. Her fingers edged along the fragile links of her necklace. “I’m sorry to leave this so late. I’ve been tracking down birth records for the counties bordering the state line.”

  Arms crossed behind his head, he leaned back in his chair. “Any luck?”

  “Not yet.” A tight smile flitted across her mouth. “Cook thinks we might be looking at an illegal adoption ring. Parents desperate for a baby, willing to do anything.”

  He nodded. “Makes sense.”

  She waved a hand toward the door, looking everywhere but at him. “Well, if that’s all, I’m going—”

  “Celia, wait.” He rose and came round the desk to stand before her. She lifted her eyes to his, but the blue depths revealed none of her emotions. Tension coiled in him, tightening the muscles along his shoulders. He had to do something about this situation between them, and he couldn’t afford to screw up again.

  “I have—”

  “Listen to me. Please. I value you as a member of my team.” He ran a hand over his nape, tendons bunching under his fingers. “You intrigue me as a woman. I’d hate to lose the former because of the latter. This morning, I was completely out of line. Professionally and personally.”

  “Fine. Apology accepted.” She folded her arms over her midriff, the line of her body screaming of stress.

  His hands itched to grasp her shoulders, rub down her arms. “I’d also hate to miss the opportunity to discover who you really are.”

  She stared at him, cynicism washing her eyes. “I see you found a way to pretty it up. Admit it. You want me in your bed.”

  “I’d be insane not to.” Probably insane for pursuing this, but doubly insane not to explore the possibilities vibrating between them. “Admit you want to be there.”

  “I already did.” Pursing her lips, she glanced away. “Let me guess. We should have a one-night stand, get the sex out of our systems.”

  “No, that’s what your buddy Cook would suggest. I prefer a monogamous relationship of limited duration with the terms understood by both parties upfront.”

  “You’re such a damn lawyer.” She turned those crystal eyes, narrowed and calculating, on him again. “You mean you like short, nostrings affairs, as opposed to Cook’s one-nighters.”

  “Exactly.” He tucked his hands in his pockets, making sure he couldn’t touch her. If anything came of this, it would be her decision, not because he’d influenced her. If she said no, that was the end of it. He’d just go quietly insane with sexual frustration. “We’re attracted and it’s getting in the way.”

  She tilted her head, the movement exposing the tiny pulse beating in her throat. “We are mature, consenting adults. There’s always the option of exploring that attraction.”

  An irresistible smile pulled at his mouth. “When it’s over, it’s over. We go in with our eyes open and no one gets hurt.”

  She watched him a long moment, until the urge to shift under that steady gaze filled him. “Do you really think we can do that?”

  He nodded. “I do.”

  Her soft exhale sounded suspiciously like a snort. He frowned. Shit, she was going to say no. He rolled his shoulders under a sudden wave of tension. “What?”

  “There’s no such thing as eyes-wide-open and no-one-gets-hurt. Someone always gets hurt, even if it doesn’t show.”

  He refused to give in to the desire to lean toward her, to kiss her until she acquiesced. “I won’t hurt you. Let me prove it to you.”

  “I don’t know.” She passed her thumb over her lips, gaze darting to his and away. “I need to think about it.”

  Muted satisfaction rushed through him, like striking a deal on a particularly difficult case. He had her on the hook. He forced himself to appear as removed as possible. Being too eager was never a good thing. “That’s fine.”

  He allowed himself to run a finger along her jaw, the skin smooth and soft beneath his touch. “If you decide this is what you want, we can have dinner tonight. My place, about seven-thirty. Bring your swimsuit.”

  —

  She’d crossed the line from stupidity to insanity. Celia killed the Xterra’s engine and reached for her sequined net bag. The bad part was she didn’t care. Well, almost. But with her desire for him outweighing the risk to her emotions, she was ready to dive into the craziness, her entire body buzzing and tingling with eagerness. All she had to do was keep her eyes open as the relationship closed over her head.

  He wasn’t hers, this wasn’t about flowers and forever, and she could climb out and walk away before she got in too deep. No problem.

  Bag slung over her shoulder, she slid from the SUV. His house was what she’d expected—a tall cedar contemporary on the lake, clean, modern, no frills. A small Honda sat in the drive, the silver Mercedes nowhere to be seen. Probably protected in the double garage. She followed the concrete walk to the front door, rang the b
ell and waited. Nerves jumped and she squashed the anxiety.

  Deep breath. Eyes open. She just had to remember that.

  The door opened to reveal a woman in her midforties, thick dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She carried a tote of cleaning supplies. She fixed Celia with a perfunctory smile. “Ms. St. John?”

  Anxiety jabbed at her stomach. “Yes.”

  The other woman stepped outside, holding the door with one hand. “Mr. McMillian is in the pool. He asked me to tell you to go on back.”

  She pointed across the foyer, toward the rear of the house, and Celia smiled. “Thanks.”

  She stepped through the doorway and the door closed behind her. Italian tile swept through the foyer, segueing to polished hardwood floors in the living room. She eyed the glass doors at the back of the house and shook her head. So like McMillian. How many times had she seen him do the same thing to a defense attorney?

  Make them come to you.

  The man was a complete control freak. She’d let him have this one. The next shot would be hers.

  She drifted through the living area, ran her fingers along the back of a butter-soft leather couch. The large room was beautiful and professionally decorated. Nothing here said it belonged to Tom McMillian. She couldn’t find a single personal touch.

  The glass doors opened onto a wide deck, steps sweeping down to a concrete patio surrounding the Grecian-inspired pool. Beyond the pool area, thick St. Augustine grass flowed to a covered dock. A handful of ducks floated between tall cypress trees. The rushing buzz of cicadas filled the air and a light breeze carried the earthy smell of lake water.

  As the other woman had said, McMillian was in the pool, swimming laps. Celia paused at the top of the steps, watching him cut through the water with powerful strokes. Tight muscles rippled beneath his skin and the nervousness fluttering in her stomach shifted, morphed into a liquid stab of anticipation.

  Forget the deep breath and open eyes. She was ready to be in over her head with him.

  Ready to drown in him.

  She descended the steps. Ferns waved in cedar planters, and the setting sun cast blue shadows on the patio. Stainless steel lights spilled pools of gold here and there.

  He hadn’t noticed her. She stopped by a lounger and laid her bag aside. Tendons stretched and pulled in his back. She swallowed. The man was absolutely beautiful. Agonized expectation swirled through her, a rush of wanting and unadulterated lust, settling into a warm ache low in her belly and between her thighs.