Callie took a cassette recorder from her purse. "Mrs. Tierney, I'd like you to tell me what happened. Do you mind if I record our conversation?"
Agnes consented to the recording, then began, "We were at the Fourth of July picnic, and I was having a wonderful chat with nice Mr. Sullivan, a very handsome man. A Libra, like me. He has the loveliest home on the Point. Anyway, we were eating Sally Babcock's scrumptious chicken gumbo. She makes it with okra and peppers, you know. But this year—" Agnes leaned forward, which sent the crystals dangling from her earlobes into lively motion "—she put shrimp in it."
She looked expectantly at Callie for a reaction.
Uncertain of the significance, Callie repeated, "Shrimp?"
"Yes, shrimp. I'm highly allergic to shrimp. So there I was, eating my gumbo, when my tongue and throat began to swell. I jumped up and hollered, 'Shrimp, shrimp!' but no one made a move to help me. Mr. Sullivan said I was turning purple. Ironic, since purple is my favorite color. Anyway, Jack Forrester showed up out of nowhere with his medical kit. He knows I'm allergic, you see. This happened before at his mother's house. She and I were good friends. Next-door neighbors, until Jack bought her house and she moved across the bay. Anyway, I yelled, 'shrimp!' and Jack gave me a shot."
"Antihistamine?"
Agnes nodded, but Grant muttered dryly, "I have my doubts."
Though she had already known of the allegation that Jack Forrester's injection had caused Agnes problems, the possibility that he'd administered the wrong medication filled Callie with inexplicable dread. Had he really made such a terrible mistake?
"What did he do then?" she asked. "Did he keep you under observation?"
"Oh, yes. He checked on me every few minutes for quite some time. The swelling in my throat and nose went away, and I could breathe again. I felt fine. Very fine, actually. Colors looked so bright and pretty, and every little noise sounded like music. It was lovely, just lovely. Mr. Sullivan and I took a stroll down the beach. How beautiful the sky and water looked!"
With a glance at the recorder, Grant interrupted her fond remembrance. "Get on with it, Mother."
"Oh … yes. Well, this part is hard to explain. I started seeing things. Fairies, dragons and big sunflowers with faces. Then my arms turned into butterfly wings. Yes, butterfly wings! Imagine my surprise. Of course I wanted to try them out, so I climbed up onto a sand dune. At the time, I thought it was a huge cocoon, you see. Then, I flew."
"You flew?"
"Yes, I flew. But not very far. The rest is all a jumble." She paused, looked down at her hand and continued in a subdued voice. "I woke up in the hospital with a sprained ankle, a concussion, and a—a—" a sheen welled up in her sky-blue eyes "—a shattered wrist."
Callie laid a gentle hand across hers. "That must have been terrible. It certainly sounds as if Dr. Forrester's injection had something to do with those hallucinations."
"Of course it did," Grant insisted. "Whatever he injected into Mother wasn't what it should have been."
"And yet, her allergic reaction subsided," Callie mused.
"No surprise there. Most of mother's 'allergic reactions' are entirely in her head. Psychosomatic. Forrester could have given her a sugar pill and alleviated her symptoms."
Agnes turned to him with a troubled look, as if she wanted to argue, but she held her tongue.
"Just to set the record straight, Ms. Marshall," he said, "there was no shrimp in Sally Babcock's gumbo."
Agnes sniffed and lifted her slightly jowled chin, her expression clearly indicating disagreement.
"I'll be sure to ask Sally about her gumbo," Callie said, conscious of a sudden tension between Agnes and Grant. "Did Dr. Forrester go with you to the hospital?" She couldn't imagine Jack not taking an active role in the crisis.
"No, he was out fishing, I believe," Grant answered. "He'd taken off on a boat shortly before Mother fell from the dune. He pays more attention to his fun and games than he does to the medication he injects into people."
Callie bit her lip. She could easily imagine Jack taking off in a boat. "Did the hospital offer an explanation for the hallucinations?"
"None. They did a whole battery of tests but came up with nothing. I have my doubts about their so-called tests, though. Jack Forrester works at that hospital. It only makes sense that they wouldn't want to incriminate one of their own."
"You think the hospital is withholding information?"
"I wouldn't doubt it."
Callie raised a brow and scribbled down a few notes. She would definitely check on those test results. Turning to Agnes, she asked, "Mrs. Tierney, forgive me, but … did you take any other medication that might have accounted for the hallucinations, or did you eat any strange foods that day, or … or smoke anything?"
"Absolutely not. I keep my body smoke-free and drug-free. I stick to a very rigid diet, too. I don't even eat red meat."
"Do you really think Mother would abuse any kind of substance?" Grant demanded with a quelling frown.
"No, of course not. But we do have to look for anything that could cause such a reaction. I'll have a doctor study your medical chart, Mrs. Tierney—with your permission, of course—along with the hospital tests."
"Any reasonable person can see that Jack Forrester's injection caused those hallucinations," Grant maintained. "My mother's injury has deprived her of her livelihood, as well as her lifelong passion—her art. I'd say it's only right that Jack Forrester pay."
"Does he have medical liability insurance?" Agnes asked, pressing a hand to her bosom. "I hope so. I'd hate to cause him too much trouble. He was always such a nice boy."
Callie was surprised by her concern.
Grant scowled. "Of course he has insurance, Mother, but that's beside the point. He caused you physical, emotional and financial distress, and if he ends up digging into his pockets, I'll be glad."
Agnes pursed her lips but offered no further comment. Callie resolved to speak to the woman alone, without her son's overbearing presence, as soon as possible. She obviously had reservations about pursuing this lawsuit—and, technically speaking, she was the plaintiff, not Grant. She would be the one testifying in court against Jack.
"Would you like tea, Miss Marshall?" she offered. "I have green, orange pekoe, Chinese, English and herbal from my very own garden."
"No, thank you, Mrs. Tierney. I really must be going, but I'd love to see you again sometime before I leave."
"You're coming to the picnic tomorrow, aren't you?"
"Picnic?"
"The Labor Day picnic. Everyone will be there. And I can introduce you to Mr. Sullivan. Bob Sullivan. We've become quite close, you know."
"Mother, I'm sure that Miss Marshall has more important things to do than hang around with the local yokels."
"Actually, the picnic might be a great place to talk to people," Callie reflected, somewhat offended by the expression "local yokels." She, after all, had grown up on the Point. Grant, on the other hand, had merely been a summer resident. "The crowd will basically be the same one that was at the July picnic, right?"
"Right!" Agnes exclaimed. "Exactly the same crowd."
"Maybe not exactly," countered Grant. "And it won't be easy to talk there, with all the hoopla going on. A waste of your time, I'd say."
"It'll be fun," Agnes pronounced. "And Grant needs a date. You'd be perfect for him."
"Mother!"
"He's single, you know," she confided to Callie. "Divorced. I barely had a chance to meet his ex-wife. The third one, that is. The other two I knew quite well. The first had been—"
"Mother, that's enough," Grant interjected. "Miss Marshall is too busy to chat." His face had turned a dull red. With a forced smile, he said to Callie, "Do you need a ride somewhere? I noticed that Dee from the bed-and-breakfast drove you here."
"My car is still stuck in the mud on Gulf Beach Road
. The only tow truck on the Point wasn't available this morning, so Dee was kind enough to offer me a ride. But you don
't have to drive me. Dee said I should just call her, and she'd come for me."
"Nonsense. I'd be delighted to drive you. Where to?"
"The inn, I suppose."
Before his mother could say more, Grant escorted Callie out to his plush luxury sedan. As they rode the short distance down the main highway to the Bayside Bed-'n-Breakfast, Callie thought about the possibility of Jack injecting Agnes with the wrong medication.
The very idea made her stomach hurt with apprehension. That reaction troubled her all the more. Why should she care if he'd grown so dangerously careless? He wasn't her concern.
Good Lord, was she hoping the plaintiff's allegations proved false? Of course not!
Grant turned his car between two palm trees and into the crushed-shell driveway of the cozy inn that overlooked the bay.
A glint of golden hair caught Callie's eye. A broad-shouldered figure stood in the driveway. His smile flashed brilliantly beside the savage scar on his suntanned face as he watched children skip through the sprinkler on the lawn.
Jack Forrester.
He was leaning against a tow truck. "What the hell is he doing here?" Grant blurted angrily.
Callie couldn't have worded the question better herself. She also wondered how the tow truck had appeared at the inn. She'd tried to hire Bobby Ray Tucker's services this morning, but someone had borrowed his tow truck. Had that someone been Jack?
Before she'd unbuckled her seat belt, Grant had sprung from the car. She hurried to catch up to him as he stalked toward Jack, his footsteps crunching in the crushed-shell driveway.
With his dark, muscled forearms crossed over his powerful chest, Jack shifted his pleasant gaze away from the children playing in the yard to his approaching enemy. In patent unconcern, he looked past Grant to Callie. Looking utterly masculine in casual, tawny pants and a root-beer-brown shirt that perfectly matched his eyes, he directed the full power of his lazy smile at her. "Mornin', Ms. Marshall."
Their gazes connected, and an unexpected charge of attraction warmed her skin beneath her prim business clothes.
Before she could summon a suitably outraged voice, Grant demanded, "What are you doing here, Forrester?" He'd stopped a few prudent yards short of where Jack stood, but glared menacingly at him.
Jack's amiable expression didn't falter. "I'd say that's none of your business, Tierney."
"It is if you're here to harass Callie Marshall."
"I grew up harassing Callie Marshall. That's not about to change anytime soon."
Grant clenched his jaw and tightened his fists at his sides. In a navy-blue polo shirt, neat taupe trousers, an expensive gold watch and Italian loafers, he looked the epitome of moneyed elegance. Physically, he was almost as big as Jack, yet somehow seemed at a disadvantage against his muscular, nonchalant adversary.
"No amount of harassment will interfere with Callie's investigation," Grant informed him. Stopping just short of smugness, he added, "I assume you've heard that she and Meg are handling my case."
"I wasn't aware you had a case."
"You will be."
Callie stepped between the two men and glared at Jack. "Why are you here, Dr. Forrester?"
"Thought you might need a tow truck."
"You know damn well I do. Did you borrow it from Bobby Ray?"
"Yes, ma'am. Didn't want anyone else to get it before you did. Are you ready to go pull your car out of the mud?"
"She doesn't need your help to do that," Grant snapped.
"Are you going to do it for her?" A glint of amusement appeared in his brown eyes. "Sure you know how?"
A flush mottled Grant's aristocratic face. "Bobby Ray Tucker has more than enough experience with his tow truck to pull a car out of the mud. All it would take is a call to him."
"Yeah, but Bobby Ray doesn't have the truck at the moment. For the rest of the day—or however long I need it—it's mine."
"I'll find another one," Grant vowed, his lips stiff and white, "if I have to go all the way to town to get it."
"Better hurry." Jack glanced at the sky, which had darkened with clouds. "A storm's on the way. Once Gulf Beach Road
gets saturated, there's no telling how long it might take before any kind of vehicle could get back there."
Callie heard Grant's teeth grinding … or maybe her own. "Are you offering to pull my car out of the mud, Dr. Forrester?"
"With pleasure, ma'am. All I ask is that you ride along with me. You know, to show me exactly where the car is. Wouldn't want to waste my valuable time looking for it."
"As if he couldn't find it," Grant scoffed. "Don't worry, Callie. I'll be following close behind in case you need me."
"Good luck." Again, amusement lit Jack's gaze. "If that pretty-boy car of yours gets mired down in muck, you might have quite a wait before you get it out. Personally, I wouldn't leave it in those woods for very long. You know how these local boys are. Might be stripped down to nothing overnight."
Worry zipped through Callie as she thought about her sister's Mercedes. An expensive car would be a temptation to the bored, rowdy teens around here, if her own childhood friends were anything to judge by. "Better not chance it, Grant."
"I'll borrow a four-wheel-drive from someone."
"You go do that," Jack urged.
"Come with me, Callie."
She cast a worried glance at the darkening sky. The heavy humidity of the sea air and the scent of impending rain warned her that time was short. "I really do need my car, Grant."
"You might also need the other few items I have for you, Ms. Marshall," Jack softly drawled.
Callie stiffened and shot him a quick glance.
Grant narrowed his eyes. "What other items?"
Jack lifted a brow, met Callie's gaze and remained pointedly silent. She knew which items he meant. She'd left her shoes, blouse and bra behind her when she'd stomped away from his boathouse yesterday. A sudden image of him dangling her bra in front of Grant Tierney brought a heated blush to her face. She hadn't told Grant that they'd been together, much less about the wound Jack had treated.
"Um, Grant…" Callie pulled him aside and whispered, "He's obviously trying to provoke you. Don't play his game. Whatever nonsense he has up his sleeve, I can handle it. Why don't you go home and—"
"Don't trust him, Callie. He's a cagey bastard, especially with women. He'll have you believing he's a persecuted saint and I'm the devil, if you give him half a chance."
She leveled him a forceful stare. "Mr. Tierney, do you trust me to handle this investigation properly, or not?"
"Well, yes, I do but—"
"If you have any reservations about my capability or my trustworthiness, let me know now and Meg will hire another investigator."
"It's not that I don't trust you. After all, you should know what a creep he is from the way he treated Meg."
Callie stared. "The way he treated Meg?" She hadn't known that anyone knew of her sister's past relationship with Jack, or his humiliating betrayal.
"Meg and I have been friends for years. I know how she feels about Jack. I assumed you felt the same way."
"My personal feelings about the defendant have nothing to do with the investigation." She didn't like the idea that he'd thought they would.
"Just don't let him talk you into forgetting how he—"
"Excuse me, Ms. Investigator," Jack called, "but we'd better hurry before the rain moves in."
With an anxious glance over her shoulder at Jack, she urged Grant, "Go. I need my car to finish the investigation, and he's my best chance of getting it."
Glaring at Jack one last time, Grant murmured to Callie, "Take everything he says with a grain of salt. And call me if there's a problem." He then strode stiffly down the driveway to his car.
She waited until he'd driven away before she turned to Jack. They stared at each other, regrouping, in a silent assessment of what the other might be thinking.
They were, essentially, alone again.
Though the innkeeper's
two young boys squealed as they ran through the sprinkler a short distance away and seagulls cried in forlorn notes from overhead, the silence between Jack and her took on a tense, intimate quality.
Jack was the first to move. Without a word or a smile, he opened the passenger door of the truck and gestured for her to get in.
She gripped the straps of her shoulder bag a little too tightly. "Why are you doing this?"
"I wanted the chance to apologize for last night." Gruffness had softened his voice, and a disturbing intensity filled his gaze. "And I want you to myself again."
Warmth invaded her. How could he affect her body temperature with only a few softly uttered words? The man was a danger. A true danger. "Why would you say something like that?" she admonished. "You know I can't go with you if you do."
"You wanted honesty."
"No." She shook her head, frightened by that honesty, and by how much she wanted to go with him anyway. "All I want is my car."
"I'll get it for you."
She twisted the straps of her shoulder bag nervously. It would be easy to slide into the truck beside him, to rationalize her need to do so. She did need her car, as well as the personal items she'd left at his boat-house.
Surely she could trust herself to handle any situation he might put her in. She might even turn the tables and learn more about him than he wanted her to know. She might actually further her investigation, get answers to some of the questions that had been bothering her since her conversation at the Tierneys.
Run away from him, Callie! an inner voice urged. Run! "Maybe I should wait for someone else's help."
"Maybe." The hint of a smile curved his mouth, though his golden-dark gaze had never looked more serious. "But don't," he whispered.
It lay there between them—the gauntlet he'd thrown down. Dare you come with me? Can you spend any time at all in my company and still tell me I mean nothing to you?
She understood the challenge better than he possibly could. He didn't know about the heat that coursed through her whenever he looked at her in that hot, possessive way—as he was looking now. He didn't know that she'd yearned for his kiss, once upon a time, back when they'd been only pals. He didn't know that she'd dreamed of him just last night, that she'd made slow, hard love to him and woken with his name on her lips.
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