Well, there was no one in sight across the street. Might as well go to bed and decide whether she was going to let him get farther than kissing her tomorrow night. He was so good at it.
Chapter Eight
Marc perched on the railing in the darkest part of the porch. Leaning back on the scratchy bricks, he scrutinized Phoebe's house, wondering what had happened on her date. Butch's Jeep had been down the street, engine and lights off, for half an hour. He hadn't gotten out. Just sat there.
Marc alternated watching the Jeep with keeping his eyes on Phoebe's house. He didn't like this scenario one bit.
When she came home with two men, one of them her friend from Marietty's, he expected Butch to approach her after they left. Butch stayed put. They'd been buddies in high school but not close friends. And now, even though Wilcox was in law enforcement, Marc had a bad feeling about the guy. Tomorrow he'd talk to Mike Banning, see what he knew about their former classmate. He didn't trust Butch. Could it be because he didn't like to think he'd slept with Phoebe? Could it be as simple as that? Or was it something more sinister?
His body flamed with sexual heat. He intended to have her. His fingers twitched imagining the feel of the little ring piercing the sensitive tip of her breast. His cock rose inside his jeans, filling and throbbing in arousal.
His big hands could completely engulf her face with its delicate features. The power and control he'd have over her—not to hurt her, never that, but power to take her, to make love with her in every way possible. Her sweet body tightly encasing his prick. He growled low and deep.
It was such a cliché that men preferred their women with long hair. And he was no different. Thrusting his fingers through the thick strands, he'd revel in its depths. He wanted it sweeping over his body, especially over his groin when she went down on him. Stifling a groan, he closed his eyes and shifted on the railing to give his cock a rough feel, wishing it were her hand.
When he opened them, he saw a shadow at her front window. She was looking out—maybe toward his house? But he knew how to camouflage himself in darkness. For a long time she watched, then disappeared. He still didn't move, wouldn't budge until Butch drove off.
Fifteen minutes later, Butch was still there. Marc was getting tired of it. How long did the fucker plan to stalk Phoebe? Inching his way off the railing, he climbed down the outside of the porch, stayed to the shadows, and slipped down the street. A minute later, he casually sauntered back down the sidewalk, coming up on Butch from behind, making no attempt to stay hidden.
"Hey Butch. How's it goin', pal?" He got great satisfaction in seeing Butch's body jolt in shock, his head swiveling toward the passenger-side window. Marc could see the whites of his comically wide eyes. "You on a surveillance?" He faked an innocent question.
"Uh yeah, but nothing's going down. I'm heading out." Butch turned the ignition key.
"Will you be in tomorrow? I want to stop by the courthouse."
"Yeah, sure. I should be unless I'm out on a call."
"Okay, great. See ya then." Butch pulled away from the curb so fast his tires squealed. The only surveillance he'd been on was Phoebe.
At first Marc thought maybe Butch had been called out at dinner and that's why she was escorted home by her friends. Now he suspected something else. He didn't want to accept that Phoebe was attracted to Butch Wilcox. Why would she kiss Marc so passionately if she were?
Strolling home, all he could think about was their date tomorrow night. That nipple ring was calling his name, not to mention the rest of her delicious body. And they'd do more than kiss.
***
In the morning Marc's first stop was the coroner's office. There were no blood test results in the police file, which was odd. All evidence from such an old case should have been there. He needed to prove his dad hadn't been driving drunk, and the blood results were the only way.
At reception he was advised that Dr. Cooper was finishing up an autopsy and would be able to see him in twenty minutes. Marc decided to wait. It took a little longer, but he was finally directed to the doctor's office. After giving his name and explaining what he needed, he was relieved to find out that even though records from a decade ago were in storage, the storage area was in the same building. An assistant was sent to track the file down.
Since the doctor had work to do, Marc waited in reception again. The assistant joined, him and he could tell there was bad news by the harried look on his face.
"I'm sorry, sir, there were no files for Marc and Frieda Rahn."
"The accident was in 2004. Are you sure you looked back that far?"
"I went back farther. Are you sure the deaths were in this county?"
Marc steamed with anger and frustration. "Yes, they were in this county. This town. I should know. They were my parents."
"I'm so sorry, sir. I can do a more thorough search, but that'll take time."
"I'd appreciate that. What's your name?"
"John Cross. I'm a medical assistant. If Dr. Cooper gives me the go-ahead, I'll get back into the storeroom and look further. Obviously I can't promise anything except that I'll do my best."
"I understand, John. Thanks." They traded cell numbers and Marc left with John's assurances he'd do everything he could to get to the bottom of this. Outside, he felt sick to his stomach and didn't feel so confident the records would be found. Why were they missing in the first place?
Nothing he'd tried to find out about this case had turned out to be easy. He hadn't expected to be instantly handed information, but now it was beginning to feel like a cover-up. Either this county was inefficiently run, or someone had the file secreted. And in that case, he definitely believed his parents had been run off the road on purpose. He had to find out why.
Marc had driven to the coroner's office on the outskirts of B Falls. As he passed Frank's house on the way back, he recalled the older man telling him about Harold Wilcox buying up the stores to build his resort on the land and how he didn't like him or trust him. So he swung his car into the resort's parking lot and decided to go on a little fishing expedition.
"Marc Rahn. Welcome home. I heard you were back in town. Marine Corps, right?" Harold Wilcox was an older version of Butch with his fair hair turned pure white and his complexion tanned, probably from golfing since one of the shelves along the wall held several trophies. He pumped Marc's hand in a too-tight grip.
"Yes, sir, eight years."
"What brings you to my office?"
"Well, I'm just tying up some loose ends. I wanted to get copies of the sale papers for my dad's store."
"Really? Why, if you don't mind my asking?"
Marc shrugged. "Just getting files and records consolidated in one place. I also want to decide what to do with the old house. You know, make decisions so I can move on with my life." Some of what he said was true. He did need to figure out what to do with the house. "Could you have someone make copies? I can wait."
Wilcox crossed back to his desk and sat down, motioning Marc to do the same. While the older man dithered around moving papers on his desk, Marc surveyed the office. Designed to look old-world but with all new furniture, it should have felt comfortable. It just felt cold even though everything wood in the room was a dark rich cherry and everything soft was green leather, the carpet a white Berber.
It was a pretentious office, one for show, not for serious work.
"I'll have to ask my secretary to check the files. That sale was how long ago?"
"Around the time my folks had the accident. 2004 or 2005."
"Yes, yes. I remember now. Very sorry about that, Marc. You were in high school, right? A senior along with Butch?"
"Yes, sir. Do you think you can have the file found?"
"Oh, I'm sure of it. When you leave I'll talk to my secretary about it," Wilcox hedged and stood.
Marc was being stonewalled. Lounging in the chair, he leisurely swung his foot up to set his ankle on the opposite knee. "Would you mind getting it started right now? The so
oner I get this done the better. I'm only home on leave." He'd show the bastard he wouldn't be brushed off that easily.
Wilcox, already standing up, apparently decided to use that movement and strode to the door to talk to his secretary. Marc could hear mumbled voices. Was Wilcox really asking for the file or was it all a show? He figured he'd find out soon enough. Either he'd get the file in the next day or so or it would be conveniently lost, like the police file.
Whatever. He'd deal with whatever happened. This evening he had more important things to think about. He gave a silent apology to his parents. He didn't consider them of lesser importance, and he'd get to the truth soon. But quirking a self-satisfied smile, he anticipated a very enjoyable evening with Phoebe Barnes.
***
Early that evening after showering and shaving, Marc donned black trousers and a light-blue dress shirt. Chuckling to himself, he decided he liked any color combination except green and tan. He'd had enough of camouflage and was enjoying civilian clothing during his leave. Backing his car out of his driveway, he whipped it around to the curb just across the street.
"You look beautiful, Phoebe," he said when she answered the door. She stunned him, but he wondered what look she was going for.
A tight black skirt to just above the knees looked businesslike, but that definitely didn't describe her top half. The blouse was sleeveless, all white silk and ruffles, dipping to a deep V between her breasts. Not businesslike at all.
The spit dried up in his mouth as his cock throbbed and swelled. She wasn't a tall woman, but in this outfit she looked statuesque and angelic. Angelic with a bit of the devil, with her long hair pulled back in a simple bouncy ponytail with the bright-pink streak front and center in her bangs.
What the hell message was she sending?
Chapter Nine
"Why, thank you, sir." Her smiled faded a little, although he was having the exact reaction she'd hoped for. She needed to keep the control because she had plans for her future. Already attracted to Marc, she had to make sure it didn't go too far too fast.
He gave her an indulgently droll look. "Don't call me…"
"Oops." She tipped her lips in a teasing smile.
His light eyes surveyed her up and down, finally focusing on the frothy lace over her breasts. Because of the nipple ring, she almost always wore something that wasn't formfitting, especially on a first date. She didn't want a man to get the wrong idea about her. The piercing didn't mean she was easy. He'd felt it the first night they'd kissed, and she had no intention of his getting to it again until and unless it was her choice.
At her urging, they turned, and she led the way down her front walk to the street. "Wow," she exclaimed. "That is one heck of a beautiful car. What is it?"
He gave a low, throaty laugh.
She glanced at him. His face lit up, his expression of pride and love added to his attraction. "Oh my God, you love it, don't you?" She laughed along with him.
Then he turned a bit sheepish, his cheeks flushing. Shrugging, he said, "It's a BMW Z4."
"It's gorgeous."
"Thanks. I always wanted a roadster when I was a kid. A 'Vette would've been good, but then I saw this baby."
"You've probably saved a lot of money over the years."
"Yeah. The Marines take care of most of my needs, so I didn't make any major purchases except this one. Come on. It drives pretty smooth." He opened the passenger door for her. "Do you want me to put the top up to save your hairstyle?"
Gazing into his amazing eyes, she couldn't disappoint him. "No, I'll just hold it down." She swept the tail to the side, wrapping the strands together in one hand.
"Great!" He strode around to the driver's side and folded his long legs into the car. The engine purred to life. "I've heard there's a new restaurant over in Birch Park. At least new to me."
She nodded. "Oh, sure. Falls River Diner. That's a good place." It was named "diner" but was really an elegant white-tablecloth restaurant with a gorgeous view of the rapids where the waterfall met the river. Drawing in a shaky breath, she stiffened when his fingers brushed against her shoulder.
"Here," he murmured. "A strand is loose." He played with it for a moment, winding it around his forefinger, his gaze on her face.
Her breath caught and warmth washed over her from her breasts to her cheeks. She had to laugh at herself. Any woman would die for this guy. Amazingly built, tall, hair obviously growing out from a military cut. She didn't care for long-haired dudes so he was good. His face exuded masculinity. He had shoulders that would hold up the earth, arms that could hold and protect a woman.
Stop it! I don't need protecting.
They settled in at a table overlooking the river, at the point where rough-edged rocks caused the rapids. "I'm sure you've been here before. What do you recommend?"
"The food's good especially the homemade soups and breads. What do you like?"
"I know what I like, but it's been a long time since I've been in a nice place with something other than MREs to eat."
"I think we can find you something better than that here."
They studied their menus in silence for a while.
He put his down on the tablecloth. "Where are you from? I would have remembered if you'd grown up here."
"I moved here a year ago from Parkersburg."
"What brought you here?"
"I got a job singing at Marietty's. It was a chance to get some experience and move my career along."
"Well, you're really good." His gaze softened with admiration.
"Thanks. It's been my dream ever since I can remember. I don't plan to stay here much longer though." Keep warning him. And yourself.
The waiter arrived with water and rolls. They ordered drinks—a vodka tonic for her, and beer for him.
"You don't like B Falls?"
"It's a wonderful town but a dead-end for me. I want to record and tour. That means New York or Los Angeles."
"You're amazing. I can't see why an agent wouldn't grab you up." Her hand lay on the table. His large, warm one covered it, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the restaurant.
She had a lot of support from her friends and the audiences cheered her on, but he'd only heard her sing once. A little voice poked at the back of her mind. He might like your singing, but it's your body he's after. Don't fall for him.
She slipped her hand out from under his and fiddled with her napkin. "I'll make it one of these days. It only takes one phone call." She changed the subject. "What brings you back to town now?"
"Unfinished business."
That was brusque. "Personal business?"
"Didn't Butch or your friends tell you about me?"
She glanced down, taken aback by his bitter tone. Lifting a shoulder, she responded, "I think something terribly sad happened to you."
"Some other time." His voice was a low growl.
This time she reached for his hand and rubbed the back of it in sympathy. "Okay."
Resting his elbow on the table, he quirked a smile. "Away from the stage you're not the same person."
She stifled a giggle. "No kidding. Performers usually aren't. It's called acting. Why? What did you think I was like?"
His eyes twinkled with humor. "Answering that question would be like approaching an IED."
"That dangerous, huh?" she responded softly. "Are you a career Marine?"
"No but technically once a Marine, always a Marine."
The entrees arrived. After a few bites, she continued, "There's no age limit?"
"Not really and I'm not that old." He huffed a laugh.
"Oh no, I wasn't saying you were. How old are you?"
"Old enough to want to kiss you again."
"Oh, shit!" She flinched, her eyes closing in alarm.
"Pardon me?" His head bucked back, and his sensual expression disappeared.
Damn it. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean you. Don't turn around." Butch had just come into the dining room from the kitchen, of all places.
"You can't say 'don't turn around' to a military man." He looked over his shoulder. "Are you talking about Butch?"
"Yes."
"Are you dating him?"
"Not any longer." Butch walked over to the bar, turned, and just stood there watching them, creeping her out.
"Do you want to leave?"
She heard the raw anger in his voice. "No. I can have dinner wherever I want with whomever I want."
"I take it he wasn't happy with the breakup." Marc sliced a piece of his steak and chewed.
She shook her head. Still steaming angry herself, she bit back a comment about Butch's parentage and tried to continue eating her own meal. Marc had moved his chair subtly, and she noticed his eyes switching from her to Butch to his plate. It didn't look like he was intimidated in the least, which was what Butch was undoubtedly going for.
Giving a little huffing laugh, she realized Marc wasn't the type of man to be intimidated by anyone. "No. We'd only gone out twice. He was acting weird and possessive."
"I can understand his attraction to you."
Her heart fluttered when her gaze clung to his sparkling eyes and admiring grin. Oh yes, attraction… "You knew him in school, didn't you?" Right. We're talking about Butch. "Was he always an officious little prick?"
He responded, his voice cold, "Oh yeah. His father was rich and buying up land in town."
"He owns the resort."
"Yeah," he replied bitterly.
The waiter approached, removed their plates, and asked if they were interested in dessert. Neither was so Marc paid the check. Butch was still at the bar when they left. They strolled to the bridge overlooking the river and leaned on the railing, watching the dark water race beneath their feet. Actually, in the darkness of the summer sky they could only hear it rustling along fast from the falls.
"All this water is such a luxury compared to…"
"Is it really as desolate and dirty over there as it looks on TV?"
"More. You can't imagine." He shrugged dismissively.
The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1) Page 6
