“Kathryn,” he said hoarsely. “Tell me when, baby. Tell me when.”
“Now. Oh, Nick. Now!”
He drove into her, hot and hard and slick, and together they tumbled over the edge into paradise.
When it was over, they lay dazed and gasping, glued together by their own dampness. The clock on the fireplace mantel ticked in the silence. In the kitchen, Elvis yawned long and loud, then thunked his head back down onto his paws. “I think I’m dead,” Nick said hoarsely. “I think you killed me.”
“You started it, DiSalvo.”
“You don’t hear me complaining, do you, McAllister?”
She stroked the smooth slope of his shoulder. “Do you have to go home?”
“Caroline said she’d stay all night.”
“Then come to bed. You need some sleep.”
He was asleep the instant his head hit the pillow. She nestled close against his warmth and lay there watching the rise and fall of his chest. Since the day she’d come home and found Michael dead on the floor, she’d never felt safe. Not anywhere, not until she met Nick DiSalvo. He was inordinately bossy, and frequently infuriating. But he made her feel safe, and she trusted him in a way she trusted no other living soul.
She hadn’t counted on this. Hell, after four years in prison, she’d stopped hoping for anything more satisfying than a hot meal and a hard bed. And as long as Michael’s killer was still running around loose, she couldn’t indulge herself in the luxury of any romantic entanglements. She couldn’t afford to be distracted. There was too much at stake.
Yet there was a part of her, some soft woman-place hidden beneath the hard-edged veneer she showed the world, that still dared to hope prison hadn’t succeeded in stamping out her ability to love. In four years, she’d never let anybody through that veneer to touch the woman beneath. Until Nick DiSalvo.
As he slept peacefully beside her, moonlight spilling through the window and turning his dark hair to silver, Kathryn realized she wanted to run. But did she want to run toward Nick, or away from him?
She honestly didn’t know.
It was the pager that woke him, insistent and annoying, and he rolled over in bed and reached out to shut it off before he realized he wasn’t in his own bed. Beside him, Kathryn lay sleeping, and on the bedside table, the clock read 7:02. He sat up on the side of the bed and rubbed his eyes, and then he went naked to the living room to find the pager in the heap of clothing they’d left in a haphazard tangle on the floor.
He shut it off and went back upstairs. Kathryn sat up in bed with the sheet tucked demurely around her breasts, her blue eyes still soft with sleep. “Morning,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “It is, isn’t it?”
There was a phone next to the bed. He sat down beside her and dialed the station. “Hear you had quite a night,” Rowena said cheerfully, and it took him a minute to realize she meant the murder and not his heated entanglement with Kathryn.
“What’s up?” he said.
“There’s some fella from the SBI waitin’ in your office. Seems extremely anxious to see you.”
“What the hell is he doing here? Wanita’s been dead less than twelve hours, and already the State’s sticking their nose in?”
“I made him a cup of our finest coffee and told him you’d be along in a bit.”
“It won’t hurt him to cool his heels for a while. Use some of your innate charm to keep him occupied. I’m running on three hours of sleep and I haven’t had my morning caffeine yet. Or a shower. I’ll be there when I get there.”
He hung up the phone and turned to Kathryn. She was still sitting there holding the covers to her bosom like a fifteen-year-old virgin. He caught the bedding in his hand and tugged, peeling it down and tossing it over the foot of the bed. “That’s more like it,” he said.
Her body was just as he’d imagined it a thousand times, lean and willowy, her belly flat, her waist tiny, her breasts ample and firm. He ran an exploratory hand down that smooth, flat belly and cupped the soft mound between her legs. “Pheromones,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve finally figured it out. That’s what keeps me coming around here, again and again. Pheromones.”
“That’s certainly flattering, DiSalvo.”
“I’m desperate for a shower,” he said. “You game?”
They made hot, wet, soapy love in the shower while Elvis whined and scratched at the closed door. Afterward, while he dressed and combed his hair, she brewed coffee. He followed his nose to the kitchen and found her bustling around, pulling things from the refrigerator. Eggs, milk, butter. “I don’t have time for breakfast,” he said as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
She wasn’t quite quick enough to hide the disappointment in her eyes. “Oh,” she said.
“I have to go home and change. And check on Janine.” Christ, he’d forgotten all about Janine. “And this State guy’s waiting in my office.” Why did he feel as though he owed her an explanation? He’d only slept with her, for Christ’s sake. It wasn’t as though he’d offered her a goddamn engagement ring. “Look,” he said, “there’s something I want you to do for me.”
She leaned against the counter, spatula in hand, and tossed those blonde curls back from her face. “What?” she said.
“I want you to get dressed and pack a suitcase,” he said, pouring milk into his coffee. He capped the milk and returned it to the refrigerator. Took a sip. Her coffee was weak and insubstantial. He was going to have to teach her how to make it right. “I’m sending Bucky over, and he’s driving you someplace where you’ll be safe until this is all over.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I don’t care where you go—Fayetteville, Raleigh, Charlotte—I just want you out of Elba.”
He’d seen that stubborn look before, and it didn’t bode well for him. “I see,” she said. “Is that a direct order, Chief DiSalvo, to get out of your picturesque little town before sundown?”
He slammed down the cup of coffee, and hot liquid sloshed over the side. “Goddamn it, Kat,” he said, “I’m not talking to you as a cop, I’m talking to you as a man.” He crossed the room, removed the spatula from her hand, and took her in his arms. “The man,” he said pointedly, “who just spent the night in your bed.”
She studied his face, and for a moment he thought she was going to give in. “There’s just one problem with that, Nick,” she said. “You can’t separate the cop from the man. They’re one and the same.”
He brushed the back of his knuckles across her cheek. “Why do you have to fight me at every turn?”
“I told you already. I’m not letting them scare me off.”
“You’re a goddamn stubborn woman, Kathryn. And I can’t watch over you every single hour of every single day.”
She reached up and straightened his collar, and that simple gesture turned him inside out. “Kiss me, DiSalvo,” she said, “and then go to work. They need you more than I do right now.”
He buried his face in her hair and lost himself. She smelled so damn good. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to come back,” he said, running the pad of his thumb along the line of her jaw. “With Janine, and now this homicide investigation—”
“It’s all right. I understand.”
He turned her face up to his and studied those clear blue eyes. “I will be back,” he said.
She tightened her fingers on the fabric of his shirt. “I know,” she said.
He kissed her gently, sweetly. “I have to go now,” he said, “but—”
“I know,” she said with resignation. “Keep the doors locked.”
It was a fine Carolina morning, and he drove with his window down, surprised at how good a man could feel with three hours of sleep, a lousy cup of coffee, and an unsolved homicide hanging over him. He wheeled into his driveway and sprang up the steps to the apartment. Janine and Caroline Belmont were having breakfast together at his kitchen table. “Morning,” he said, and Janine shot up fr
om her chair.
“Daddy!” she said. “You’re home!”
He returned her hug. “Just for a few minutes, squirt. I have somebody waiting for me in my office.”
“That’s not fair, for them to make you work so hard.” She looked wildly indignant. “When are you supposed to sleep?”
“I, uh, caught a couple hours of sleep,” he said, and Caroline raised a single, elegant eyebrow.
“Where?” Janine demanded.
“At the station. Look, sweetheart, I have to change and get back. Maybe tonight I can take you out for pizza. Would you like that?”
“I’m always up for pizza,” she said. “But I’d rather have you.”
Her words soured his mood considerably. He changed into his uniform, checked his gun and holstered it, rubbed at a smudge on his shoes. He felt guilty all the way to work, guilty for leaving her alone, guilty for being a cop when everybody else’s father was home every night at 5:30. Guilty for screwing his brains out with the prime suspect in a homicide investigation.
He poured himself a huge cup of Rowena’s hi-test coffee before he went in. Nodding toward his office, he whispered, “Name?”
“Melcher,” Rowena said. “Special Agent Richard Melcher. And if I were you, Chief, I’d consider takin’ two cups instead of one. Our friend Melcher’s gettin’ a little testy.”
He poured a second cup for Melcher and carried them both into his office. “Thought you could use a refill,” he said, and set it down in front of his visitor.
“Mr. DiSalvo,” Melcher said. “So nice that you could drop in and join us this morning.”
Melcher was the kind of cop Nick hated on sight. Somewhere around twenty-five years old, he was one of those buzz-cut, spit-and-polish, by-the-book assholes who thought he had all the answers. Young, desperately earnest, and green as fresh-mown grass. Nick sat down in his chair, rolled it back against the wall, and propped his feet up on his desk. While Melcher waited, he took a long, satisfying sip of coffee. Rowena knew how to make a cup of coffee. Maybe she could give Kathryn a few pointers.
“Now that we have the amenities taken care of,” he said, “why don’t you tell me what’s your interest in the case?”
“A convicted killer is turned loose and comes back to the sleepy little hamlet where the only murder in the last thirty years was her husband’s. Ten days later, the State’s prime witness in her conviction turns up dead, conveniently carrying the lady’s phone number in her pocket.” Melcher leaned back in his chair and adjusted his perfectly creased pants. “You tell me what our interest is.”
Nick smiled agreeably. “Maybe you’d like to tell me just how you happened to come by that little piece of information.”
Melcher returned the smile. “Let’s just say a little bird told me.”
“The conviction in that case,” he said over the rim of his coffee cup, “was overturned.”
“Following the testimony of some little old lady who probably can’t tell her ass from her elbow.”
“Come on, Melcher. Do you really think Kathryn McAllister is stupid enough to kill Wanita Crumley and leave her own phone number in the victim’s pocket?”
“You and I, DiSalvo, have both been around long enough to know that anybody is capable of doing anything, given the right motive and the right opportunity. We have motive, and we have opportunity. Now all we need is physical evidence, and we can nail her ass to the wall.”
A muscle twitched in his eyelid. “This is my town,” he said quietly. “This is my investigation. I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. Now, why don’t you toddle on back to Raleigh, or wherever the hell you came from, tell your boss that we’re doing just fine on our own here in Elba, and let me get on with the business of solving this homicide?”
“Sorry, DiSalvo. No can do. I’m not budging until I get some answers from Kathryn McAllister.”
He dropped his feet to the floor so suddenly that the kid jumped. In a deadly quiet voice he said, “She had nothing to do with it.”
“Fine. Then she has nothing to be afraid of, does she?”
She was getting ready to take Elvis for a run when the police cruiser pulled into her driveway and Bucky Stimpson climbed out. He took a moment to hike up his pants and adjust his gun belt before he walked gingerly up the driveway. Furious, she flung open the front door and glared at him. “I told DiSalvo I wasn’t going anywhere,” she said, “and I’m not!”
“Ma’am?” Bucky stood there on her porch, bouncing on the balls of his feet and throwing nervous glances at Elvis, who stood rigidly by her side. “The Chief asked me to come down and pick you up, escort you down to the station.”
“Down to the station?” she said. “Why does he want me at the station?”
Bucky tucked his hands into his pockets and squirmed. “Well, ma’am,” he said, “there’s a fellow down there from the SBI—” He paused and adjusted his hat. “That’s the State Bureau of Investigation,” he clarified.
“I know what it is!” she snapped.
Bucky cleared his throat. “Seems this fellow wants to question you regarding the killin’ of Wanita Crumley.”
She didn’t bother to change out of her running clothes. It didn’t really make any difference, anyway. She sat stiff and silent in the backseat of Bucky’s patrol car, her purse clasped tightly in her hands, her knuckles white. The last time she’d ridden in the backseat of a police cruiser, she’d been covered with Michael’s blood, and numb with fear. At least this time, there was no blood. The irony wasn’t lost on her, though. She’d been wearing running clothes that time, too.
She followed Bucky wordlessly up the walk of the municipal building, past the blooming geraniums, up the front steps and through the door. Rowena looked up as she passed, gave her the evil eye, and returned to her knitting. Her breath was a fiery pain in her chest as Bucky knocked on the door and opened it. “Chief?” he said. “Miz McAllister’s here.”
She walked through the door like a woman walking to her execution. Nick sat behind the desk, long legs sprawled, wearing his cop face, the one that would have identified him as a cop anywhere, even if he hadn’t been wearing a gun and a badge. The SBI agent was young, clean-cut, and wore a gray suit with a red power tie. “Ms. McAllister,” he said wryly, “do come in.”
She stubbornly refused to take her eyes off DiSalvo, refused to hide the hurt, and he just as stubbornly refused to acknowledge it. The man who’d made passionate love to her just hours earlier was gone, replaced by a stone-faced stranger whose eyes looked at her with an indifference that was far more painful than the act of being hauled in for questioning.
“Go ahead, Melcher,” he said to the agent, “it’s your party.” And without even glancing in her direction, he got up from the chair, turned his back on her, and walked over to the window.
She stared at him for a moment in disbelief, and then she turned to the eager young agent. He reminded her of a half-grown pit bull. “Richard Melcher,” he said briskly, “SBI. I’d like to ask you a few questions concerning the Crumley homicide.”
Her stomach had gone sour, and for a moment she was afraid she might vomit. She sat down heavily in the chair and folded her arms across her stomach. “I don’t know anything about the Crumley homicide,” she said.
“What was your relationship with the victim?”
“I didn’t have a relationship with her. Shouldn’t my lawyer be present, Mr. Melcher?”
“There’s no need for that, Ms. McAllister. We’re just having a friendly little Q&A here. Did you or did you not know Wanita Crumley?”
“I knew her. So did everybody else in Elba.”
“Did you hate her?”
“I don’t like what you’re implying by that question—”
“Because I would sure as hell hate anybody who did to me what that woman did to you. She aired your dirty laundry in public, Kathryn. She let the whole world know that you couldn’t keep your husband satisfied. That must have made you very angry.”
“Maybe you’d like to explain to me why we found a slip of paper in the victim’s pocket with your phone number on it, along with the words Lake Alberta, 8:00 Friday.”
She glanced at Nick. He must have known. He must have known last night, when he came back to her house. But he’d come anyway. He’d made love to her anyway. She silently begged him to turn around, but he never moved a muscle, just stood there rigidly at the window, his back ramrod straight. “I have no idea,” she said.
“Come on, Kathryn. We’re all intelligent people here. Did you or did you not have a meeting with Wanita Crumley at 8:00 last night?”
She debated how to answer, decided on the truth. “We’d scheduled a meeting. Wanita never showed up. And my name, Mr. Melcher, is Ms. McAllister.”
He got up from his chair and began walking around the room. She followed him with her eyes, not trusting the little worm as far as she could throw him. “Why did you schedule a meeting with her?” he said.
“She phoned me two nights ago and told me she had information that might prove useful to me. I agreed to meet her and pay her fifty dollars for the information. That’s the kind of woman she was, Mr. Melcher. She would have sold her own grandmother for a fifty-dollar bill.”
He sat on the edge of Nick’s desk and adjusted the crease in his pant leg. “What information?” he said.
“About who killed my husband. It seemed rather important at the time.”
Nick turned away from the window, leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms. She glared at him, but those chocolate eyes never flickered, never softened.
Melcher tapped his hand against the edge of the desk. “Why did you come back to Elba?” he said.
Black Widow Page 12
