Memories of Us

by Linda Winfree

  Definitely not after Brian Turello had damn near ruined her career.

  Not to mention her life.

  “Cee, I wish you’d—”

  “I need to shower.” Celia pushed the comforter aside and slid from the bed. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Cee?”

  Cicely’s tentative voice stopped her at the bathroom door. Celia glanced at her sister over her shoulder. Uncertainty lingered in the sea green of Cicely’s eyes; concern tightened the line of her mouth.

  “Please be careful.”

  Celia smiled, her face aching with the stiff expression. “Of course. Don’t worry about me.”

  She showered and dressed, ate a quick breakfast and arrived at the office an hour before it opened. McMillian’s Mercedes already sat in its spot, and combined unease and anticipation rolled over already sensitized nerves. Alone in the office with him. That could definitely be a blessing or a curse.

  No way could she go in his office, not after that fantasy last night. She’d be ready to carry it out. God, her learning curve must be huge—she wanted him as much this morning as she had last night, despite the potential for hurt. She’d act like it was any other morning, bypass his office, go directly to her own, finish going through the database of birth records.

  His office door stood closed. She eased down the hall, feeling like a teenager trying to sneak past vigilant parents. Ridiculous. They’d agreed to leave the affair outside the office. She could do that.

  With a deep breath, she immersed herself in the paper trail.

  Minutes later, her office door closed with a soft click. She glanced up, her stomach flip-flopping. McMillian leaned against the door—wearing his dark suit and that damned blue tie. The man must be able to read her mind.

  She tapped her pen on the blotter. “Good morning.”

  He nodded, tilted his head and studied her. She stared back. How many times had she seen him use that particular trick on a recalcitrant witness? Laughter bubbled in her throat. She’d faced down a drugged-out thug with a knife, without backup. Did he really think his prosecutor’s stare would get to her?

  With a shrug, she dropped her gaze to the records. She heard him move, the whisper of his suit as he came to stand behind her. The subtle scent of his aftershave, something clean and woodsy, enveloped her. A strong hand appeared on either side of her, flat on the desk. Excitement fluttered in her belly and a sweet ache throbbed lower in the secret places he’d delved into the night before.

  “What are you doing?” The warm rush of his breath, a blend of mint and coffee, stirred the hair beside her ear.

  “Going through birth records.” At least her voice remained steady. She kept her hands in her lap.

  He chuckled, a deep, throaty sound. “Last night was incredible.”

  “I thought we were keeping this out of the office.”

  “We are.” His mouth moved closer to her ear. “I’m not touching you.”

  She laughed. Twisting, she looked into his eyes. A devilish gleam lurked in the blue depths and her breath caught. Relaxed, playful, he was amazingly handsome. Amazingly sexy. “I think that’s a technicality.”

  His gaze dipped to her mouth. “I’m a lawyer. I live for technicalities.”

  A smile curved her lips. “Of course. How silly of me.”

  He crooked a finger at her. “If you moved just an inch or so this way, we could call that the second move you’re so determined to have.”

  Oh, he was smooth. She leaned forward, paused and pulled back. “Don’t think so, Counselor. I had something a little different in mind.”

  “Really?” A slanted smile quirked at his mouth. “And I suppose I have to wait for tonight to find out what that is?”

  She couldn’t resist a teasing jab. “Patience, McMillian. Didn’t we establish that good things came to those who—”

  “Make them happen.” He pressed in, feathering his mouth over hers. Their lips met, clung. He pulled back, rubbing his thumb over the corner of her mouth. “Now it’s a good morning.”

  Her skin jumping with the passion he’d wakened with one simple kiss, she flattened a hand against his chest. “You must get out of here. I have work to do and you’re a major distraction.”

  With an easy laugh, he straightened and walked to the door. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  “Great. I’ll just sit here and keep running into dead ends.” She looked up at his wide shoulders. “McMillian?”

  At the door, he stopped. “Yes?”

  She swallowed. “I can’t promise you closure on this case. There are too many unknowns and too few leads, and if those fingerprints don’t kick something back to us, I’m afraid it’s going to go cold.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up, his face softening. “Celia, there’s no doubt in my mind you can do this.”

  The door closed behind him. She stared at it. She was glad one of them was so confident.

  —

  “I have something.”

  Celia’s excited voice pulled Tom from the disclosure statement he was drafting. He glanced up, pinching the bridge of his nose. Nagging pain sat between his eyes, a holdover from a restless night, his attempts at sleep disturbed by those weird and violent dreams. The best part of his day had been that swift kiss between them, blocking out the tension and pain for a few seconds.

  “What?”

  She waved a paper at him. A flush highlighted her cheekbones and her eyes shone with enthusiasm. “A couple from Cader County applied for a homebirth certificate at the beginning of the week. They didn’t have the witness affidavit and when the clerk followed up, they told her they wouldn’t need the certificate after all.”

  He lifted his brows. “Any reason why?”

  “No.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I’m going to run over and interview them. I might take Cook with me—”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  She gestured at the papers spread across his desk. “You’re busy.”

  “It can wait.” He slid on his jacket. “As long as I’m back by one to make the county-commission meeting.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m sure. I want to hear what they have to say and having the local prosecutor with you might be helpful. Let’s go.”

  She folded her arms. “Did anyone ever point out that you’re a bossy son of a bitch?”

  A laugh rumbled up from his chest. “A tough one, too. Come on.”

  His hand at the small of her back, he ushered her from the room. While she retrieved her bag from her office, he left instructions with his assistant.

  Outside, Celia jingled her keys at him. “I’m driving.”

  His stomach dropped into the pit of his belly. A tremor worked down his spine, a montage of images flashing in his head—a screech of tires and metal, broken glass, blood marring Celia’s face. His footing fumbled on the last step and she put out a hand to steady him.

  “McMillian?” Concern coated her voice.

  He shook his head, heat flooding his face and neck. Icy beads of sweat popped out on his upper lip. “I’m fine. Let’s take my car. I’ll drive.”

  “But I—”

  “I said I’ll drive.”

  She stared at him and his skin crawled. Slowly, she tucked her keys away. “Okay. Whatever you want.”

  Feeling foolish, he followed her to his car. Without speaking, she slid into the passenger seat and fastened her belt.

  He flexed his hands on the wheel. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

  She shot him a glance, a wistful expression darkening her eyes. “You’re a hard man to figure out, McMillian.”

  Shifting gears, he backed out. “You can call me Tom, you know.”

  Especially after last night.

  She blinked and reached down to adjust her skirt. “I don’t think of you as Tom.”

  He slanted a sardonic smile in her direction. “Don’t you think you should?”

  Unde
r her suit jacket, her shoulders moved in a careless shrug. “I never really considered it. I mean, we agreed this wouldn’t last and we’ll go back to our professional relationship. Why change the way I address you?”

  One night and she was already looking for the end. The realization caused irritation to flow through him. “That doesn’t mean you can’t call me by name.”

  “I do call you by name.” She looked his way and he caught a glimpse of confusion in her eyes. “What’s the difference?”

  He braked for the traffic light at Highway 19. “How would you feel if I called you St. John all the time?”

  She laughed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, most people I know do.”

  Because they were all damn cops. Why was he making such a big deal of this? It didn’t matter what she called him. Except her addressing him by his last name didn’t set him apart from the other men she knew, and when she did it, he couldn’t forget what she was.

  A cop.

  He’d sworn, never again. Maybe it was stupid, but it was the way he felt. He couldn’t live with another woman who turned her emotions on and off like a tap.

  But that excuse was a load of bullshit, because he wouldn’t be living with Celia. This wasn’t a long-term arrangement. Hell, it didn’t even qualify as a relationship. He was tying himself in knots for nothing.

  They left town behind, farmland opening up around them. His car hugged the road, zipping around curves and snapping along the straightaways. Celia remained silent, staring out the window, her fingers stroking over the silver chain at her neck.

  He darted a glance at her, his gaze dropping to her waist. What was she wearing beneath the gray suit? The belly chain? Silk or lace?

  The heavy, putrid odor of chicken barns came in through the air vents, permeating the interior. Celia wrinkled her nose. “I hate that smell.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Tom downshifted as the minivan in front of him slowed to take the hairpin “S” curves before Stocks Dairy Road.

  She rubbed at the end of her nose. “I wonder if the chicken farmers get used to it?”

  The ping of her cell phone forestalled his reply. She pulled it from her waist. “St. John.”

  A long pause, and she darted a glance at him. “On my way to Cader County with McMillian. Sure. I can do that. Do me a favor, would you? Call over to Moultrie and check on our fingerprints again. Remind Whitlock that he owes me. Thanks.”

  She folded the phone. Tom gripped the wheel tighter. “Let me guess who that was.”

  “Why do you dislike him so much?”

  He hadn’t, not until this case. Thinking about the motive behind his sudden aversion to Mark Cook wasn’t something he really wanted to do. He rolled tense shoulders. “Maybe I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

  She laughed. “How would that be?”

  “The guy’s a sleaze.”

  “He’s a damn good cop.”

  “And that makes everything okay? What he does personally doesn’t matter, as long as he’s good on the job? God, I hate the way you compartmentalize your lives.”

  She fixed a cool look on him. “Kathleen Harding really did a number on you, didn’t she?”

  His stomach folded as if she’d punched him. “We are not talking about my ex-wife.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” She tapped a slender finger against her temple, her tone sharp. “We’re not going to have that kind of relationship. Talking about our pasts is unimportant.”

  “Cut it out, Celia.” The minivan drifted across the centerline. The driver, just visible through tinted windows, glanced over her shoulder, perhaps seeking something on the back seat. “Anything that happened with me and Kathleen has nothing to do with us.”

  “That’s right. Because we’re all about the sex. That means there is no ‘us’.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you hate her career that much?”

  “I don’t give a good damn about her career.” He lifted his foot from the gas as the minivan slowed once more, approaching the crossroads ahead. “Can we drop this?”

  Celia lifted a hand. “Consider it gone.”

  He blew out a long breath. “Damn it, I should have stayed in the office.”

  Her eyes narrowed further, thinning to glittering slits. “It’s not too late to turn around.”

  He didn’t miss her double meaning. Frustrated, he jerked his gaze back to the road. From the right, an unloaded chicken truck rumbled toward the crossroads. Tom frowned. The guy was taking his sweet time about slowing for the stop sign.

  “McMillian.” Celia’s hand fluttered over his biceps. His gut tensed.

  “Shit.” He grabbed for the gearshift, hit the brakes.

  “Oh God.” Her panicked voice filled his ears.

  The truck blew by the stop sign, barreled into the intersection.

  Celia screamed.

  —

  Adrenaline pulsed under Celia’s skin, an uncomfortable wave that quickened her pulse and shortened her breath.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, fumbling with her seatbelt, her gaze trained on the crumpled minivan, its front end crushed against a small stand of trees. Finally free of the restraint, she pushed the door open, barely waiting for McMillian to get the Mercedes to a complete stop on the shoulder. “Call 911.”

  He unfolded from the driver’s seat, already punching in numbers on his cell. She paused at the edge of the blacktop, assessing the scene, letting her training settle the tension and lingering sense of panic. The trailer lay across the road, bent cages scattered in every direction. Steam and smoke drifted lazily from the metal accordion of the van. Gas and diesel fumes mixed with the acrid smell of electrical circuits shorting.

  She glanced over her shoulder at McMillian, phone at his ear. “If you have hazard cones, put them out. And stay here. I’m going to check the victims.”

  “Celia, wait.” He caught her arm, his gaze sweeping over the van and the thickening smoke. “It’s dangerous. Wait for the police.”

  “Don’t you get it, McMillian? I am the police.”

  His hand dropped away and he spoke quickly into the phone, relaying details. She turned to the carnage, but not before catching the expression tightening his face. She jogged across the road and picked her way down the steep incline to the ditch where the van and semi lay.

  Coughing from the fumes hanging in the air, she crouched by the van first and peered through the shattered windshield. Blood spattered the interior, and although she didn’t have to touch the female driver to know she was dead, she shifted to check the woman’s pulse anyway. An infant car seat was wedged behind the front seat, but no cries rose from the wreckage.

  She closed her eyes. No. Please.

  Dark tint and trees kept her from seeing clearly inside the rear of the van. Unable to reach into the backseat, she rose. She had no way of knowing if the van was stable and having it roll over on her, posing a further risk to any child in the car, wasn’t an option. The distant cry of sirens filled the air and relief pulsed in her. She stepped over pieces of metal and fiberglass, shattered glass sparkling among the weeds in the ditch. The sirens grew closer, louder.

  She looked through the windshield of the semi. The driver, blood trickling from a cut at his temple, slumped over the wheel, but she could see his shoulders moved with regular breaths. Vehicles stopped above her on the road, doors slamming, voices calling instructions and questions.

  “Hey, St. John, you okay?” Cook skidded down the incline, a swarm of emergency personnel—firefighters, EMTs, fellow deputies—with him.

  “I’m fine.” She swiped a loose hank of hair away from her face. Her nerves jumped, a trembling setting into her limbs. She stiffened her spine, rubbed her clammy palms down her hips. “Busted down to traffic detail?”

  He shrugged, his gaze moving toward the van. “I was just a couple miles away, en route from Albany.”

  A pair of EMTs half-jogged, half-slid down the embankment. “What have we got?”

  “The van’s driver ha
s no pulse. There’s an infant seat in the backseat, but I couldn’t tell if there was a child. The truck’s driver is unconscious, but breathing.”

  Firefighters assessed the scene, tied the van off with rope secured to nearby trees and opened the semi so an EMT could reach the driver. Another man draped a tarp over the van, hollering that they’d have to cut the driver out.

  “What happened?”

  Celia dragged her gaze away from the scene. “The semi blew off the stop sign.”

  His eyes narrowed as he studied the semi. “That’s Nate Holton’s truck. Son of a bitch was probably drunk. You’ve got blood on your face.”

  She swiped at her chin, a tinge of red on her fingers. Pain stung her skin. “I must have cut myself.”

  “Come on. They’re gonna have to pull a wrecker in here and Parker has this under control.” Cook held out a hand as they neared the top of the incline. Her gaze immediately tracked to McMillian, despite the chaos. He stood by the Mercedes, talking to a young deputy who scribbled in a notebook. McMillian looked up, his glacial gaze clashing with hers. He focused on her chin, his posture tightening, and she brushed at the trickle of blood there once more.

  Hooking his thumbs in his belt loops as they approached the Mercedes, Cook jerked his chin toward McMillian. “I know you were taking him to Cader County, but I’d like to be there.”

  She glanced at him, not wanting to deal with the tension between the two men. “McMillian and I can handle it.”

  “It is my case, St. John.”

  She looked at McMillian once more. He pointed toward the intersection, his face taut. Her stomach flipped. Right now, the last thing she needed was to get back in that car with him and wrangle with more of the mess they’d managed to create between them.

  Between them?

  Oh hell, who was she kidding? The only thing between them was one sexual interlude and an asinine agreement to explore their attraction. Hadn’t their argument before the accident proved that? Sleeping with him hadn’t given her entrance into his life on any level.