by Nora Roberts
way.”
“It’s all right.” Laurel noticed the woman was slowly, systematically tearing the paper cup to shreds. “I’m Laurel Armand.”
“Susan Fisher.” Blankly, she looked down at the scraps of paper in her lap.
“Can I help, Susan?”
That almost started the tears again. Such simple words, Susan thought as she closed her eyes against them. Why should they make her feel all the more hopeless? “I don’t know why I came here,” she began jerkily. “I just couldn’t think of anything else. The police . . .”
Laurel’s reporter’s drive rose to tangle with her protective instincts. Both were too natural to her for her to even notice them. She laid a hand on Susan’s shoulder. “I work here; you can talk to me. Would you like to start at the beginning?”
Susan stared up at her. She no longer knew whom to trust, or if indeed trust was a word to believe in. This woman looked so confident, so sure of herself. She’d never had her life shattered. Why would this poised, vibrant-looking woman listen, or believe?
Susan’s eyes were blue, soft and light and vulnerable. Laurel didn’t know why they made her think of Matt, a man she thought had no sensitivity at all, yet they did. She put her hand over Susan’s. “I’ll help you if I can.”
“My sister.” The words tumbled out, then stopped with a jerk. With an effort, Susan swallowed and began again. “My sister, Anne, met Louis Trulane a year ago.”
Louis? The name shot through Laurel’s mind so that the hand over Susan’s stiffened. Bittersweet memories, loyalties, growing pains. What could this tearful, frightened woman have to do with Louis? “Go on,” Laurel managed, making her fingers relax.
“They were married less than a month after they met. Anne was so much in love. We had—we were sharing an apartment at the time, and all she could talk about was Louis, and moving here to live in the fabulous old house he owned. Heritage Oak. Do you know it?”
Laurel nodded, staring off into nothing more than her own memories. “Yes, I know it.”
“She sent me pictures of it. I just couldn’t imagine Anne living there, being mistress of it. Her letters were full of it, and of Louis, of course.” Susan paused as her breath came out in a shudder. “She was so happy. They were already talking about starting a family. I’d finally made arrangements to take some time off. I was coming to visit her when I got Louis’s letter.”
Laurel turned to take Susan’s hand in a firmer grip. “Susan, I know—”
“She was dead.” The statement was flat and dull, with shock still lingering around the edges. “Anne was dead. Louis wrote—he wrote that she’d gone out alone, after dark, wandered into the swamp. A copperhead bite, he said. If they’d found her sooner . . . but it wasn’t until the next morning, and it was too late.” Susan pressed her lips together, telling herself she had to get beyond the tears. The time for them was over. “She was only twenty-one, and so lovely.”
“Susan, it must’ve been dreadful for you to hear that way. It was a terrible accident.”
“Murder,” Susan said in a deadly calm voice. “It was murder.”
Laurel stared at her for a full ten seconds. Her first inclination to soothe and comfort vanished, replaced by a whiff of doubt, a tingle of interest. “Anne Trulane died of a snakebite and exposure. Why do you call it murder?”
Susan rose and paced to the window. Laurel hadn’t patted her hand, hadn’t made inane comments. She was still listening, and Susan felt a faint flicker of hope. “I’ll tell you what I told Louis, what I told the police.” She took an extra moment to let the air go in and out of her lungs slowly. “Anne and I were very close. She was always gentle, sensitive. She had a childlike sweetness without being childish. I want you to understand that I knew Anne as well as I know myself.”
Laurel thought of Curt and nodded. “I do.”
Susan responded to this sign of acceptance with a sigh. “Ever since she was little, Anne had a phobia about dark places. If she had to go into a room at night, she’d reach in and hit the light switch first. It was more than just habit, it was one of those small fears some of us never outgrow. Do you know what I mean?”
Thinking of her own phobia, she nodded again. “Yes, I know.”
Susan stepped away from the window. “As much as Anne loved that house, having the swamp so near bothered her. She’d written me that it was like a dark closet—something she avoided even in the daytime. She loved Louis, wanted to please him, but she wouldn’t go through it with him.”
She whirled back to Laurel with eyes no longer calm, but pleading. “You have to understand, she adored him, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t do that for him. It was like an obsession. Anne believed it was haunted—she’d even worked herself up to the point where she thought she saw lights out there. Anne would never have gone in there alone, at night.”
Laurel waited a moment, while facts and ideas raced through her mind. “But she was found there.”
“Because someone took her.”
In silence, Laurel measured the woman who now stood across from her. Gone was the defenseless look. Though the eyes were still puffy and red-rimmed, there was a determination in them, and a demand to be believed. An older sister’s shock and loyalty perhaps, Laurel mused, but she let bits and pieces of the story run through her mind, along with what she knew of Anne Trulane’s death.
It had never been clear why the young bride had wandered into the swamp alone. Though Laurel had grown up with swamps and bayous, she knew they could be treacherous places, especially at night, for someone who didn’t know them. Insects, bogs . . . snakes.
She remembered too how Louis Trulane had closed out the press after the tragedy—no interviews, no comment. As soon as the inquest had been over, he’d retreated to Heritage Oak.
Laurel thought of Louis, then looked at Susan. Loyalties tugged. And pulling from both sides was a reporter’s instinct she’d been born with. The whys in life always demanded an answer.
“Why did you come to the Herald, Susan?”
“I went to see Louis last night as soon as I got into town. He wouldn’t listen to me. This morning I went to the police.” She lifted her hands in a gesture of futility. “Case closed. Before I had a chance to think about it, I was here. Maybe I should hire a private investigator, but . . .” Trailing off, she shook her head. “Even if that were the right way to go, I don’t have the money. I know the Trulanes are a powerful, respected family, but there has to be a way of getting at the truth. My sister was murdered.” This time her voice quivered on the statement and the color that had risen to her cheeks from agitation faded.
Not as strong as she wants to be, Laurel realized as she rose. “Susan, would you trust me to look into this?”
Susan dragged a hand through her hair. She didn’t want to fall apart now, not now, when someone was offering the help she needed so badly. “I have to trust someone.”
“There’re a few things I have to do.” Abruptly, Laurel became brisk. If there was a story, and she smelled one, she couldn’t think of old ties, old memories. “There’s a coffee machine in the lobby. Get a cup and wait for me there. When I’ve finished, we’ll get something to eat—talk some more.”
Asking no questions, Susan gathered up her purse, watching the torn bits of the paper cup drift to the floor. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Laurel advised. “I haven’t done anything.”
Susan paused at the door to glance over her shoulder. “Yes, you have.”
Mouth pursed in thought, Laurel watched Susan wind her way through the desks in the city room. Anne Trulane, she thought, and let out a sigh. Louis. Good God, what kind of wasp’s nest was she poking into?
Before she could formulate an answer, the city editor came in, his thin face creased into a scowl, his tired eyes annoyed. “Damn it, Laurel, this is a newspaper, not a Miss Lonelyhearts service. When one of your friends has a fight with her boyfriend, find someone else’s office to flood. Now move it.” He flopped
down behind his cluttered desk. “You’ve got a story to write.”
Laurel walked over to the desk and perched on the corner. Don Ballinger was her godfather, a man who had often bounced her on his knee. If it came to a toss-up between personal affection and news copy, the copy’d win hands down. Laurel expected no less. “That was Anne Trulane’s sister,” she said mildly when he opened his mouth to swear at her.
“Trulane,” he repeated as his wispy brows drew together. “What’d she want?”
Laurel picked up a hunk of fool’s gold Don used as a paperweight and shifted it from hand to hand. “To prove her sister was murdered.”
He gave a short bark that might have been a laugh or a sound of derision. Don took a cigarette out of the desk drawer and ran it lovingly through his fingers. He stroked it, caressed it, but didn’t light it. He hadn’t lit one in sixteen days, ten hours . . . twenty-two minutes. “Snakebite,” Don said simply, “and a night’s exposure don’t add up to murder. What about the story on the highway agency?”
“The sister tells me that Anne had a phobia about the dark,” Laurel continued. “Anne supposedly mentioned the swamp where she died in her letters. She hadn’t set foot in it, and didn’t intend to.”
“Obviously she changed her mind.”
“Or someone changed it for her.”
“Laurel—”
“Don, let me do some poking around.” Laurel studied the glittering paperweight as she spoke. Things weren’t always as they seemed, she mused. Not nearly always. “It couldn’t hurt. If nothing else, I could work up a human interest piece.”
Don scowled down at his cigarette, running a finger from filter to tip. “Trulane won’t like it.”
“I can deal with Louis,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “There’s something in this, Don. There was never any clear reason why Anne Trulane went out there alone. She was already dressed for bed.”
They both knew the rumors—that she’d been meeting a lover, that Louis had bracketed her to the house until she’d simply gone out blindly, then lost herself. Don put the cigarette in his mouth and gnawed on the filter. The Trulanes were always good copy. “Nose around,” he said at length. “It’s still fresh news.” Before Laurel could be too pleased that she’d won the first round, he dropped the bomb. “Bates covered the story, work with him.”
“Work with Bates?” she repeated. “I don’t need him. It’s my lead, my story.”
“His beat,” Don countered, “and no one’s story until there is one.”
“Damn it, Don, the man’s insufferable. I’m not some junior reporter who needs a proctor, and—”
“And he has the contacts, the sources and knows the background.” He rose while Laurel simmered. “We don’t play personality games on the Herald, Laurel. You work together.” After shooting her a last look, he stuck his head out the door. “Bates!”
“You can’t play personality games with someone who has none,” Laurel muttered. “I’m the one who knows the Trulanes. He’ll just get in my way.”
“Sulking always was a bad habit of yours,” Don commented as he rounded his desk again.
“I am not sulking!” she protested as Matt sauntered into the room.
He took one look at Laurel’s furious face, lifted a brow and grinned. “Problem?”
Laurel controlled the urge to hiss at him, and sank into a chair. With Matthew Bates around, there was always a problem.
***
“Cheer up,” Matt advised a few minutes later. “Before this is over, you might learn something.”
“I don’t need to learn anything from you.” Laurel swung toward the elevator.
“That,” he murmured, enjoying the way her lips formed into a pout, “remains to be seen.”
“You’re not taking on an apprentice, Bates, but a partner.” She jammed her fists into her pockets. “Don insisted on it because you’d covered the investigation and the inquest. You could make it easy on both of us by just giving me your notes.”
“The last thing I do,” Matt said mildly, “is give anyone my notes.”
“And the last thing I need is to have you breathing down my neck on this. It’s my story.”
“That really stuck where it hurts, didn’t it?” Casually, he pushed the button on the elevator, then turned to her. “Didn’t your papa ever tell you that sharing’s good for the soul?”
Fuming, Laurel stepped into the car and pushed for lobby. “Go to hell.”
She didn’t know he could move quickly. Perhaps this was her first lesson. Before she had an inkling what he was doing, Matt punched a button and stopped the car between floors. Even as her mouth fell open in surprise, he had her backed up against the side wall. “Watch how far you push,” he warned softly, “unless you’re willing to take a few hard shoves yourself.”
Her throat was so dry it hurt. She’d never seen his eyes frost over like this. It was frightening. Fascinating. Odd, she thought she’d convinced herself he didn’t have a temper, but now that it was about to grab her by the throat, she wasn’t surprised. No, it wasn’t surprise that had the chill racing over her skin.
She was frightened, Matt observed. But she wasn’t cringing. Common sense told him to back off now that his point had been made. But a year was a very long time. “I think I’ll just get this out of my system now, before we get started.”
He saw her eyes widen, stunned as he lowered his mouth toward hers. A twist of amusement curved his lips as he allowed them to hover a breath from hers. “Surprised, Laurellie?”
Why wasn’t she moving? Her body simply wouldn’t respond to the commands of her brain. She was almost certain she was telling her arms to push him away. Good God, he had beautiful eyes. Incredibly beautiful eyes. His breath whispered over her skin, trailing into her mouth through lips that had parted without her knowledge. He smelled of no more than soap—basic, simple. Wonderful.
In an effort to clear her senses, Laurel straightened against the wall. “Don’t you dare—”
The words ended with a strangled sound of pleasure as his lips skimmed over hers. It wasn’t a kiss. No one would consider such a thing a kiss: a breath of a touch without pressure. It was more of a hint—or a threat. Laurel wondered if someone had cut the cables on the elevator.
She didn’t move, not a muscle. Her eyes were wide open, her mind wiped clean as he stepped fractionally closer so that his body made full contact with hers—firm, lean, strong. Even as her system jolted, she didn’t move. His mouth was still whispering on hers, so subtly, so impossibly light she might have imagined it. When she felt the moist tip of his tongue trace her lips, then dip inside to touch, just touch, the tip of hers, the breath she’d been holding shuddered out.
It was that quiet, involuntary sound of surrender that nearly broke his control. If she’d spit and snarled at him, he could have dealt with it easily. He’d been angry enough to. He hadn’t expected stunned submission, not from her. Over the anger came a tempting sense of power, then an ache—gnawing and sweet—of need. Even as he nipped his teeth into her soft bottom lip he wondered if he’d ever have her at quite such a disadvantage again.
God, he wanted to touch her, to slip that neat little blouse off her shoulders and let his hands mold slowly, very, very slowly, every inch of her. That skin of hers, pale as a magnolia, soft as rainwater, had driven him mad for months. He could have her now, Matt thought as he nibbled ever so gently at her lips. He was skilled enough, she off guard enough that he could take her there on the floor of the elevator before either of them had regained their senses. It would be crazy, wonderfully crazy. Even as she stood still, he could all but taste that passion fighting to overcome her surprise and reach out for him. But he had different plans for the seduction of Laurel Armand.
So he didn’t touch her, but lazily backed away. Not once during those shivering two minutes had she taken her eyes off his. Laurel watched that clever, torturous mouth curve as he again pressed the button for the lobby. The elevator started with a
rumble and jerk.
“A pity we’re pressed for time,” Matt commented easily, then gave the elevator car a careless glance. “And space.”
Layer by layer the mists that had covered her brain cleared until she could think with perfect clarity. Her eyes were glimmering green slits, her ivory skin flushed with rage as she let out a stream of curses in a fluid, effortless style he had to admire.
“Did you know you completely drop your Rs when your temper’s loose?” Matt asked pleasantly. “It’s an education in regional cadence. Truce, Laurel.” He held up his hand, palm out as she drew breath to start again. “At least a professional one until we run down this lead. We can take up the private war when we’re off duty.”
She bit back a retort and smoldered as the elevator came gently to a stop. It wouldn’t instill much confidence in Susan Fisher if the two of them were taking potshots at each other. “An armed truce, Bates,” she compromised as they stepped into the lobby. “Try anything like that again, and you’ll be missing some teeth.”
Matt ran his tongue over them experimentally. “Sounds reasonable.” He offered his hand, and though she didn’t trust that sober expression on his face, Laurel accepted. “Looks like I buy you lunch after all.”
Removing her hand, Laurel straightened the purse on her shoulder. “Big talk on an expense account.”
Grinning, he swung a friendly arm around her as they moved toward the rear of the lobby. “Don’t be cranky, Laurellie, it’s our first date.”
She snorted, and tossed her head—but she didn’t push his arm away.
Chapter 3
