River Road

by JoAnn Ross

  When the band broke into a drum-banging rockabilly, he put his hand on her back and began walking off the dance floor. "You've got an early call and you've already had a long day. We'd better get back to town." Julia was a bit surprised when his tone suggested he was no more eager to call it a night than she was.

  They were back out on the sidewalk again and Finn had just unlocked the passenger door when a biker, clad in skintight black leather pants, a Harley-Davidson T-shirt, and enough chains to stretch from here to the Moonwalk, called out to her.

  "Hey, Amanda, I gotta know, are you gonna get an abortion?"

  Julia flashed one of her professional smiles. "Now, I'd just love to tell you, darlin'," she answered in Amanda's smoke and honey drawl. "But if I breathed so much as a single solitary word about the plothne, those mean old producers would have to kill me."

  He laughed at that and blew her a kiss.

  Their attention on the biker, neither Finn nor Julia noticed the woman who'd kept herself out of the photograph exiting the restaurant. She was in the shadows, watching them intently as Finn opened the Suburban's door. She failed to smile at Julia's little joke; indeed her expression was murderous.

  "It must get old," Finn said as they drove away from the restaurant. "Losing your privacy."

  "I've gotten used to living in a fishbowl. Besides, it's a trade-off."

  "It'll probably get worse after the Bond movie comes out." Finn figured even a minor royalty from her Bond Girl poster profits could be enough to set a person up for life.

  "Perhaps. But I'm hoping people's attitudes might change a bit since a 'movie star'"—she made little quote marks in the air with her fingers—"is viewed a lot differently than a TV actor. Viewers invite us into their homes every week. They invest a lot of time—sometimes years—and emotional energy into the characters. So, I think they get to feel like part of the family."

  "A dysfunctional family."

  "True. But that's what keeps people tuning in every week."

  "That, and you wearing those bodysuits and taking all those steamy showers."

  "That, too." She laughed, clearly not apologetic of what some strident feminists had blasted as a role that exploited female sexuality and demeaned the strides women had made in the workplace.

  Once they left the bright lights of the city behind, night closed in on them. Clouds had drifted in from the Gulf, concealing the moon. The fields of sugar cane and forests of cypress stretched outward from both sides of the road like ghostly shadows.

  "It really is like another world," she murmured as an owl swooped silently down from a snag, flashing across the fog-softened yellow beam of the headlights. It snatched up a field mouse that hadn't quite managed to make it across the pavement to the safety of the cane field, before being swallowed up again by the dark. "Like from a movie. The world time forgot." She turned toward him. "Do you miss it?"

  "It's impossible to miss something you're never really away from. The land may not look all that substantial, but roots grow deep here. Once the bayou's in your blood, it never lets go."

  "But you don't live here. Is it because there's not enough challenge?"

  "There're a lot of challenges that come with living in the swamp. But I guess I just felt too confined,"

  "Plus it's difficult to get people to view you as an adult in the town where you grew up," she suggested. "Even when I go home to the farm, I'm still Peace and Freedom's little girl."

  He shrugged, deciding that they might actually have this in com-

  mon. "It's not that I mind being regarded by everyone as my father's son—"

  "But you wanted more. More autonomy. More excitement. And sometimes you feel a little guilty about that," she guessed, "even though it's as perfectly natural as the tide flowing out to sea, or a flower reaching for the sun."

  "Are you actually comparing me to some daisy?"

  "Are you always so damn literal?" She exhaled a long sigh. "Okay, like a tree reaching for the sun. A giant sequoia. Is that better?"

  Despite her teasing, he sensed she was genuinely interested. "It's not the excitement." He'd never been particularly introspective, but took a moment to consider her suggestion.

  "If I wanted excitement, I would've been a street cop. Or joined a SWAT team. I always knew I'd be in law enforcement, but I also knew I wasn't an adrenaline junkie. I suppose I chose the FBI because I enjoy solving puzzles."

  "And because you're a red, white and blue patriot—"

  "Anything wrong with that?"

  "Of course not. There you go, jumping to conclusions, trying to pigeonhole me into some neat and tidy counterculture box."

  "Nothing neat or tidy about you, sweetheart."

  "Since I've had such a lovely evening, I'm going to pretend that's a compliment. And for the record, my parents brought me up to love my country."

  "Sure they did. That's why they spent so much of the seventies bucking the system and promoting anarchy."

  "Anarchists do not create working, cooperative societies. Rainbow's End Farm was not only financially successful, it's as close as you can get to a pure democracy. It's because they love this country that they felt the need to speak out when they believed things were going in the wrong direction. But this isn't about them."

  "Could have fooled me. I thought our little shopping trip was about pulling the wool over their eyes."

  "Maybe I just wanted to go dancing. And it's not that I'm trying to hide that you work for the FBI, I just don't see any point in rubbing it in their faces."

  "I don't see why that'd be any big deal. Since if they do think there's anything going on between us, instead of setting the record straight, you're going to lie and say we broke up."

  "I don't want them to worry about me, which they'd do if they knew why we're really together. Besides, it'd only be a little white lie."

  "Black, white"—he shrugged—"it's still not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

  "That may work fine in court, but this is a personal matter."

  "Maybe you're not giving them enough credit. Let's say, for argument's sake, that we were involved-—"

  "Involved like sleeping together?"

  "Involved like involved. We're talking hypothetical here. My point is that, even if they were to believe we're in an intimate relationship, they shouldn't get all uptight about what I do for a living. Aren't flower children supposed to be open-minded when they're not smoking dope or having free sex?"

  "It's been a very long time since my parents dabbled in illegal drugs, and while you probably won't believe this, they've always been monogamous."

  "How would you know?"

  She folded her arms. "Because they told me. And we've always been absolutely honest with each other."

  "Until now."

  She shot him a look. "Touché."

  "For some reason I can't figure out—except for the possibility I've gone nuts and don't realize it—I'm willing to go along with this little charade of yours," he said. "To a point. But I'm still convinced it's a waste of time." Looking out into the well of darkness, Finn broke another rule and shared a thought with her. "I can understand and even admire your desire to protect your parents from worrying about you because you love them—"

  "Unequivocally."

  He believed that. This was not a woman who did—or felt—anything by half measures. "But there's still one thing we have to get clear. If it comes down to a choice between your safety or protecting their feelings, there's not going to be a choice. Is that understood?"

  "You're one of the few men I've ever met who says precisely what he means."

  "Perhaps you need to meet a different type of man."

  "I have." The smile she bestowed on him was designed to dazzle. And did. "And with that we come full circle, back to why you became an agent in the first place. Deep down inside that gruff exterior is a man who cares, Finn. Sometimes too much."

  She turned toward him, her eyes skimming over his face. "This last cas
e was hard on you."

  "Yeah."

  "Because you feel you should have caught the killer sooner?"

  "Most cops would feel the same way."

  "But it ate at you. You lived the case day and night for three years. You lived in Lawson's head. Every woman you saw on the street, in a bar or a restaurant, riding on a bus or across the aisle in a plane, all became potential victims. You looked at them the way he would. Thought of why he might pick out any one of them, imagined what he'd do. And then you found them when he was finished with them, and you were the one who became their voice. You were the one who spoke for those dead women, but even that didn't quite ease your conscience."

  "They wouldn't have been dead if I'd caught the guy sooner."

  "True. But did you ever consider how many you saved? Not after you captured him, but during that time? I looked the case up on the Internet last night. You were right on his trail nearly the entire time."

  "Not close enough."

  "You can't know that. The two of you obviously became close, in a fashion. If you were in his head, he was undoubtedly in yours. And if that's the case, there could have been times you don't even know about when you were close enough that he sensed you following him, and didn't dare make his move. Nights the women who might have ended up his victims got home safely. Because of you."

  Even the shrink Burke had sent him to after his little blowup hadn't suggested that.

  "I never thought of it that way."

  "Perhaps you should."

  Finn didn't respond as they drove through the night in silence. But he did wonder.

  Chapter 19

  Several of the cast and crew were still in the bar and called out to Julia to join them when they returned to the inn, but she begged off, claiming she still had lines to memorize before morning.

  Warren was sitting at a table in the far corner, deeply engrossed in conversation.

  "Well, they certainly seem to be getting along well," Julia murmured in the elevator, more to herself than to Finn. She liked Warren a great deal and worried about his being hurt by someone who might only view him as her ticket out of the bayou.

  "Who?"

  "Warren and that local blond cheerleader-type belle he's been spending his evenings with. The one with the mother who wears that horrid hat that looks as if a bird died on it."

  "The belle is Lorelei. Her mama with the hat is Miss Melanie."

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope. And not only that, Miss Melanie's sister is Miss Scarlett."

  "Well, fiddle-dee-dee. And I thought folks on the commune saddled their kids with tough names."

  "Lorelei and Miss Melanie are loyal fans."

  "So they tell me. Mercy, I didn't think I was going to be able to get a word in edgewise between the two of them." She nailed Lorelei's breathless accent as she fanned herself with her hand. "Lorelei's certainly doing all right for herself. After Warren was so obviously smitten with her the night of the welcome party, he started writing her lines, which just goes to show that the casting couch hasn't entirely been tossed out with the old studio system. Though in this case, I suspect it's the actress who's manipulating things."

  "Lorelei isn't like that. She may play the belle, but that's because she actually is one. What you see is pretty much what you get, and if she sleeps with a guy it's because she likes him."

  "She seems to like you well enough."

  "We go back to high school. She knows Nate better."

  "So I gathered. If the hat lady can be believed, their wedding's in the planning stages,"

  He laughed at that idea. "Miss Melanie's been writing out the guest list and choosing the songs and flowers since Lorelei was five and Nate was six. For a lady with a cotton candy exterior, she's your quintessential steel magnolia. I can't see her giving up until her daughter's safely married off."

  "Safely. What an odd way to put it."

  "You weren't around when Lorelei got herself engaged to some Baton Rouge banker with a gambling problem, who got himself in debt to the mob. Her Shih Tzu got kidnapped. The thugs left a letter in his little wicker bed suggesting she was next if her rat of a fiance didn't cough up the bucks."

  "What happened?"

  "Nate calmed her down, found where they were keeping the dog, and brought him back home."

  "What happened to the fiance?"

  "That's not so clear. Some folks say he's in the Witness Protection program, working as a caddy at a country club in Tucson. Others say he ran off with one of the mobster's daughters and is hiding out in Little Rock working as a hospital orderly. There's also another theory that he's had plastic surgery and is selling bibles door to door in Kansas."

  "Who says small towns are boring?" she said with a smile as they entered the suite, which seemed to have shrunk in the past few days. It was nearly claustrophobic tonight, the tension rising as chick as morning fog over the bayou.

  "Would you like a nightcap?" she asked.

  "Thanks, but I don't drink."

  "I noticed that at dinner, but thought perhaps it was because you were on duty."

  "No. I don't drink, period."

  She tilted her head and studied him. "Is there a story there?"

  "Not really."

  "Then I'd guess it's because you don't want to risk giving up control."

  "Don't you think you've done enough psychoanalyzing for one night?" There was no humor in his half smile.

  "Sorry. Professional hazard." She took two bottles of mineral water from the minibar and held one out to him. "I enjoy tinkering with characters, taking them apart, getting beneath the surface to see how they work."

  "I'm not a character."

  "Of course you are." She took a long drink and told herself that her dry throat was only due to the heat. "As much as I detest putting people into neat little boxes, everyone does pretty much fit an archetype. You're a classic romantic and literary staple: tall, dark and silent."

  "And yours would be?"

  She didn't stop to ponder the question. "Artistic. A bit unconventional. Occasionally given to flights of fantasy. But grounded, in my own way."

  "This from someone with a purse full of rocks."

  Was there anything he didn't notice? "They're crystals. From my mother. And it's not that I actually believe in them."

  "No?"

  "No. It's more like I don't disbelieve." She shrugged as she tossed the bag in question onto the sofa. "Besides, what harm can they do?"

  "How about give you a very sore shoulder from lugging them around?"

  "Good point." She rubbed the shoulder in question. "I don't suppose you know anyone who'd be able to work the kinks out?"

  "Why don't you try sleeping it off? If it's still sore in the morning, have Hogan call a masseuse."

  "I could do that. But mornings are so hectic, what with hair and makeup, script changes, dry-blocking, and beginning to tape the scenes. Perhaps it'd be easier if you could give it a try for me tonight. I know I'd sleep ever so much better if my body were more relaxed."

  "I'm not a masseuse."

  "How hard can it be? All you have to do is put your hands on me. And begin rubbing."

  He looked at her long enough to make her blood pulse with expectation. Julia could tell he was definitely tempted. "I'll get you an aspirin."

  Foiled again. "Dudley Do-Right lives," she murmured. "Have you ever considered moving across the border and joining the Mounties?"

  "Nah. The uniform sucks."

  "Some women like a man in uniform." He'd look fabulous.

  "Maybe. And the Mounties are good enough cops—"

  "They always get their man."

  "It's a catchy motto. But their uniform reminds me of an operetta."

  "Indian Love Call. Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald." She grinned when he looked surprised. "My parents used to act out those old musicals with friends in the farm's theater."

  "Why do I have difficulty picturing your parents as Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland putting on a show
in the barn?"

  Because they'd been getting along so well, the sarcasm grated more than it would have before. "If you'd seen Mama Cass and Jerry Garcia in Take Me to St. Louis, you might change your mind. Maybe you can't imagine it because you're a snob.

  "Yes, you are," she said when he arched a challenging brow. "A cop snob. You think that just because you carry a badge and arrest bad guys, you're better than the rest of us flawed civilians."

  "That's bullshit."

  "I don't think so. And you know what, Callahan? You're also the male version of a cock tease."

  He went very still. "What the hell are you talking about?" His shoulders were stone, his eyes fierce and narrowed.

  "You kissed me the other day. And again, tonight in the restaurant. Kissed me like you wanted me."

  "What man wouldn't want you? Besides, you're the one who keeps telling me I ought to give in to impulse once in a while."

  "That's all it was? An impulse?"

  "Sure. You're a sexy woman, and I've spent the better part of a week watching you shed your clothes and get down and dirty with enough guys to make up a basketball team."

  "Surely a hotshot detective like you ought to be able to tell the difference between real life and fantasy."

  "Sure. But playacting or not, it's still hot. It gets a guy to thinking about things."

  "A guy? Or you?"

  "Me. Ever since you got off that damn plane, I've been thinking about all the things I wanted to do with you. To you."

  She watched his mouth draw into a grim line and remembered the way it tasted. Tantalized. Tormented.

  "But I've been working overtime to keep things professional. Then you flutter those Scarlett O'Hara eyelashes and wheedle me into taking you into the city—"

  She couldn't deny it. "Is it so wrong to want to escape another evening locked in protective custody?"

  That wasn't the whole story. The truth was that she'd wanted to be alone with him away from Blue Bayou and River Road. She'd wanted him to hold her again. Kiss her again. And that was just for starters.

  "This suite isn't exactly Angola Prison. Then you drag me to that club—"

  "I was hungry."

  "Sure you were. But you'd hardly taken a bite when the next thing I know, I'm out on the dance floor and you've wrapped yourself around me like some damn Bourbon Street hooker—"