Call Back: Magnolia Steel Mystery #3 (Magnolia Steele Mystery)

by Denise Grover Swank

  He pushed out a breath and his entire body relaxed. “Thank you.”

  “Why does he make you so anxious?”

  “Let’s just say I have a few suspicions about him and leave it at that.”

  “Do you think he’s dangerous?”

  He watched me. “Please don’t meet with him,” he repeated.

  “I said okay.” Did that mean he was dangerous or not? Was he being evasive because this was related to police business?

  Brady drained his wine glass, then flagged down the bartender. “I don’t feel like eating here anymore. Would you mind going somewhere else?”

  “Sure. Of course.” Brady’s intent had been to steer me away from Bill, but he’d only piqued my curiosity.

  Chapter 5

  We found another restaurant in Belle Meade, but Brady was quiet and tense. After we ordered our food, I reached across the table and grabbed his hand, startling him out of his thoughts.

  “Contrary to your perception of me,” I said quietly, “I’m not fragile, either emotionally or physically, and I can be a good listener. Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you? I can handle it.” Was Bill James connected to the issue Brady had been discussing with Owen? I wasn’t sure I believed that Brady’s suspicions of the man had nothing to do with my father.

  He turned his hand over and clasped mine. “I never said you were fragile.”

  “No, but the way you’ve treated me . . . you’ve been so nice . . .”

  “That’s because I like you. I’ve made no secret of that. If you decide you just want to be friends, I’ll accept that, but we both know there’s a connection between us, and I won’t lie and say I won’t be disappointed if you decide to ignore it. But our kiss . . .” His troubled gaze held mine. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated in any way.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I wanted you to stay with me because I was worried about you. It wasn’t some sneaky attempt to get you to sleep with me.”

  I gave him a soft smile. “I know. I kissed you back because it felt right. No other reason.”

  Relief washed over his face.

  “Is that what’s bothering you?” It didn’t seem likely. His agitation had started with his phone call—and increased after we saw Bill James.

  “Partially.” He grabbed his water glass and took a big drink before setting it down. “No more work talk. Tell me a story about your work in the theatre world.”

  I was dying to know more, but knew he’d never tell me—at least not if I came at it straight on—so I launched into a story about an off-Broadway play I’d been in. The director, a man with early-onset dementia, had kept changing the blocking.

  “On opening night, he changed it again, except the only person he told was the lead actress. There was a scene where she was supposed to do a trust fall, only the actor wasn’t in the right place to catch her, so she fell right off the stage into the audience.”

  “Oh, no. Was she okay?”

  “The audience wasn’t your typical audience—the play was way off Broadway—and they thought it was part of the show. They caught her with their hands, and she crowd surfed for a good half-minute.”

  He grinned. “You’re kidding.”

  I shook my head and laughed. “Nope. Word got out and the next night we had a crowd waiting for the crowd-surfing scene, but the director had changed it again. Regrettably—or not—the play only lasted a week.”

  “And how many plays have you done?”

  “Good question . . . maybe forty? Forty-five? Some died in rehearsal and never made it to the stage. Mostly ensemble parts in the beginning. I worked my way up.”

  “How many Broadway plays?”

  “Four. Once I hit Broadway three years ago, I quit my waitressing job.”

  “Did you always know you wanted to be an actress?” he asked.

  Talking about my past was dangerous—it would inevitably lead to questions, and Colt was right. Since Brady was a cop, he’d notice any inconsistencies in my story. But I found myself trusting Brady more and more. Would it be so bad to tell him more? “No. I thought I wanted to marry my high school sweetheart, Tanner McKee, and become a teacher here in Franklin.”

  “When did you change your mind?”

  Dangerous ground, Magnolia. “I decided life was too short and I needed an adventure before I settled down,” I lied, then decided to tell him a small truth to corroborate my story. “So I took off for New York City the day after my high school graduation.”

  “How did your mother take it?”

  “Not well. She barely spoke to me for years afterward, and my brother never forgave me.”

  “Sounds like it must have been awkward when you came home for visits.”

  I could lie, but I decided against it. It was easier to get tripped up by lies than the truth, and I could make this one work. “I never came home until the day of Luke Powell’s party.”

  He did a double take. “You’re kidding. Not once in ten years?”

  “It was hard to get away. Most waitressing gigs don’t have paid vacations.”

  “Still, ten years . . .”

  “That must be hard for you to believe because you’re so close to your family,” I said. “My family fell apart when my daddy disappeared.”

  He frowned. “I’m sorry.”

  I shrugged. “It is what it is.”

  We spent the rest of dinner sharing stories. While I stuck to New York tales, he told me about growing up with his brother and sister. By the time the waiter brought our bill, I almost felt like a somewhat functional person. Brady Bennett really did seem like a steady kind of guy. The kind you’d be lucky to build a life with.

  And damned if I didn’t like imagining myself in that pretty picture.

  “It’s early,” Brady said as we walked to his car. “Do want to see if we can catch a movie?”

  I stopped and looked up at him, unsure about the decision I was considering. Was it so wrong to be impulsive just this once? “Can we go back to your place?”

  “Are you tired?” he asked, worry filling his eyes. “Is everything okay?”

  I gave him a soft smile. “For the first time in a very long time, everything is perfect.” My life was in shambles, but tonight there was no place I’d rather be than with Brady. He almost made me believe there was a better, more normal life waiting for me outside of the craziness that had engulfed mine—and if I just stuck close to him, I might get there someday.

  I placed my hands on his chest and reached up to kiss him. He kissed me back, then lifted his head and grinned. “Magnolia Steele, you are a woman full of surprises.”

  “I have plenty more,” I said playfully, but anxiety prickled at me. How would Brady react when he found out all the secrets I’d been keeping? Based on what I knew of him, he’d not only be understanding, he’d want to help me.

  We were quiet most of the way back to his apartment, and my mind drifted back to the cameras planted in my apartment. If Owen was the cameraman, what would he do if I started something with Brady? Would it hurt their friendship? I tried to feel some guilt over that, but if Owen had really stooped that low, maybe Brady deserved a better friend.

  Brady snagged my hand as we walked through the parking garage to the elevator, and he was quiet until we were in his apartment. Once he locked the door, he turned to me, looking uncertain. “Do you want to watch a movie or something?”

  “No.” I closed the distance between us and kissed him. A spark ignited deep in my gut as I slid my arms around his back and pressed myself against him, needing him closer.

  His mouth tore from mine and he searched my eyes. “Are you sure, Maggie?”

  No. This was the stupidest thing I’d done in a long time, but I wanted this. Needed this. I needed to know that I could have a life with someone good. That my existence didn’t have to be defined by fear. “Yes.”

  He kissed me again, threading his hand into my hair and tilting back my head as his tongue coaxed mine.<
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  I matched his urgency, blindly searching for the buttons of his dress shirt. I had several undone when Brady lifted his head and searched my face. “I want you, Magnolia, but only if this is what you want. If you have any hesitations, tell me. We’ve been taking this slow. We can go back to slow.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to take it slow. I want you.”

  He kissed me again, pushing me backward down the hall to his room.

  Colt suddenly came to mind, uninvited. How could I be doing this now, after the way I’d reacted to him this afternoon? But I assured myself that I’d been playing a role in our trick to fool the cameraman. I wanted to be with Brady, not Colt, and this was the best way to purge the scene from my apartment from my head.

  Brady stopped next to his bed and reached around my back to pull down my zipper. The cool air hit the bare skin of my back, making me shiver.

  Brady pushed my dress over my shoulders and down my arms, and it dropped to the floor at my feet.

  I reached for his shirt, made quick work of the rest of his buttons, and then pulled his shirt free so I had full access to his chest. After resting my hands a moment on his pecs, I let them wander down his hard abs to the waistband of his pants. It took a few movements, but I soon had his pants and underwear pushed down below his hips.

  Brady kicked off his shoes, stepped out of his pants. He unhooked my bra, then pulled me down to the bed and kissed me. His mouth lowered to my chest as his hand slipped into my panties. My back arched and I gasped as his tongue teased my nipple while his hand slid between my folds. Soon I was writhing beneath him.

  “I want you now,” I moaned.

  “But—”

  “Now.”

  He leaned over to his nightstand and opened the drawer to get a condom as I tugged off my panties. He rolled on the condom before turning back and covered my body with his.

  I wrapped a leg around his back and lifted my hips as he entered me. He kissed me again as he thrust, and I grabbed his butt to pull him closer, needing him deeper as I climbed higher and higher. This man was what I needed—to feel safe and cherished—two feelings I’d never felt with any other man.

  I gasped out his name as I came, clinging to him as he pushed deeper several more times before he gave one last thrust. He collapsed next to me, holding me close as we caught our breath.

  “That was . . . fast,” he said.

  I rolled to my side to face him. To my surprise, tears were burning my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He looked alarmed. “Do you regret this?”

  “No. It’s just . . .” I chuckled as I wiped a tear from my eye. “You must be having major regrets, thinking I’m one of those women who cries after sex, but I promise you that I’m not.”

  He grinned. “I just bring out the tears?”

  “I don’t know how to explain it. I’m just so overwhelmed . . .”

  “Good overwhelmed or bad?”

  “Good,” I said, looking into his eyes. “You make me feel things I never expected to feel. Thank you.”

  “Oh, Maggie.” He leaned over and cupped my cheek, kissing me with more passion than I would have expected after sex.

  I wrapped my hands around his neck and held him close as I kissed him back.

  He lifted his head and smiled. The happiness radiating from him was infectious, and I smiled back. This felt good; this felt normal.

  Brady settled next to me again and rested his fingertips on my stomach, making lazy figure eights. “Are you working for your mother tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. I’m cleaning Miss Ava’s house, then working for Momma and Tilly starting at four. I won’t be done until late because the event is up in Nashville.”

  “But you’ll come here when you’re done?” he asked as his hand moved over my hip, wandering to my thigh.

  I was about to answer him when his hand abruptly stopped, and I realized he’d just traced my scar.

  His body stiffened slightly as he propped himself onto his elbow to study it.

  I’d been so stupid. Of course Brady would notice my scar. Most of my previous boyfriends had commented on it, but they’d all accepted my excuse—that it was the relic of a freak childhood accident involving my cousin and a cookie cutter. Of course, most of my exes were self-centered assholes, purposefully selected because they wouldn’t pry, wouldn’t go too deep. I suspected Brady would want to know all the details. He’d question anything that sounded unbelievable.

  “Don’t look at it.” I covered the mark with my hand. It was ugly and it wasn’t small. The two-inch long backward C had been carved high up on my thigh, and the slash through it had been deep enough that any doctor would have insisted on stitches. But when I woke up in the woods behind my house the night of my graduation—after it happened—I’d been too confused and disoriented to realize I’d been cut so badly. The next morning, my focus had been on fleeing Franklin.

  “What happened?” His voice was tight and his body had tensed even more.

  “Just a stupid childhood injury.”

  Brady sat up and leaned over to get a better look, trying to gently move my hand to the side, but I fought him.

  His gaze lifted to mine. “I just want to see it.”

  “It’s ugly. I hate it.”

  A soft smile washed over his face. “It’s part of you and you’re beautiful. Just let me look at it. Please?”

  I sat up and moved my back up against his pillows and headboard. Feeling self-conscious and vulnerable, I reached down and pulled the sheet up to cover myself, clutching it to my breasts. “Why?”

  “So I know more about you.” He lifted his leg and pointed to a white pockmark on his left calf. “My brother accidently shot me with a nail gun when I was twelve.”

  “Oh, my God. How old was he?”

  “Ten. It was an accident, but I’ve never let him live it down. How’d you get yours?”

  “I told you. A childhood accident.”

  “I know, but how?”

  “A cookie cutter.”

  “Now I really want to see it.” He shifted to get a better vantage point and then shifted the sheet to expose my right thigh. Looking up at me to gauge my reaction, he asked, “Okay?”

  He’d think it odd if I continued to fight him on it. I nodded slightly.

  His finger lightly traced the mark. “No stitches?”

  “What?” I asked in surprise.

  “It looks like it was deep, but I don’t see any stitch marks, and the straight line is a little wider, suggesting it didn’t close properly.”

  I grabbed the sheet and pulled it back over my leg. “I thought you were a police officer, not a doctor.”

  I expected him to start a tug-of-war over the sheet, but he turned and sat up, cross-legged. “I have enough experience in forensics to know a thing or two,” he said, his eyes meeting mine.

  “I’m not a dead body, Brady,” I snapped, but it didn’t seem to faze him.

  “No,” he said in a husky voice. “You are far from it. Just making observations. I’m sorry if you were uncomfortable.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Why didn’t you get stitches?”

  “You’ve met my mother.”

  “Yeah, and while she came across as harsh, I can’t imagine her letting something like that go unattended. How old were you when it happened?”

  I couldn’t let him think my mother had been neglectful. If I’d gotten a cut as deep as this one as a child, my mother would have had me in an ER before I so much as got a drop of blood on the floor. “I was a teenager. I don’t think she realized how bad it was.”

  His eyes turned serious. “That’s an odd scar for a cookie cutter, Maggie. How did you really get it?”

  “I’m not examining the scar on your leg to make sure it matches the diameter of a nail,” I said in an ugly tone. “Am I a suspect?”

  “What?” he asked in disbelief. “No.”

  “Then why all the questions?”

  “Is it rea
lly so hard for you to believe that someone could just care about you? No agenda?”

  “Yes.” I hadn’t meant to say it, but it was true.

  He inched closer and sadness washed over his face. “Who hurt you so badly that you don’t believe you can be loved?”

  I jolted off the bed, tugging the sheet with me. “And now you’re a psychologist. Just a jack-of-all-trades, huh?”

  Brady watched me with his eagle eyes. “No, but I know when someone’s been hurt, and your wounds go deep, Magnolia Steele.”

  “This is just a fling, Brady. So let’s just keep to the superficial stuff, okay?”

  I’d said it to hurt him, and the look in his eyes told me I’d succeeded. A momentary wave of guilt washed over me, but he was too smart for my own good, and he cared too much.

  “This isn’t a fling,” he said softly. “But if that’s how you need to define it to give us a chance, I can live with that.” He climbed off the bed and stood in front of me. “No more talk about your scar. You can tell me what happened when you’re ready. Okay?”

  I nodded. Stupidly, I didn’t want to give him up yet. “Okay.”

  “I’m going to take a shower. Want to join me?” When I hesitated, he added, “I won’t look at your scar.”

  “Okay.”

  I knew he’d be unable to stop himself, and I was right. It was like telling someone not to look at a train wreck—you just couldn’t help yourself. But I didn’t call him on it. He’d already studied it enough to ask questions I couldn’t answer. What did it matter now? Besides, he became far more concerned with the dark bruises and welts covering my back and the backs of my arms.

  “I should have made you go to the hospital,” he said, sounding guilty.

  I looked up at him, narrowing my eyes. “Let’s get one thing straight. You will never be able to make me do anything. You might ask and I might agree, but you can’t make me.”