by Sheryl Lynn
“What is the matter with you, Catherine?”
She should tell him about Easy. After all, it had been Easy’s surprise visit which had clinched her decision to marry Jeffrey. As her official fiancé, Jeffrey had a right to know about any unresolved issues from her past.
He slowed to turn into her driveway. The white car slowed behind them. Anger boiled up like bubbling soup, infusing her blood, tightening her jaw.
“Don’t talk to me then.” Jeffrey turned the wheel sharply. In the back seat, Oscar and Bent lost their balance. Jeffrey managed to hit every pothole and rut in the driveway. The dogs bounced around, unable to get their feet under them. Bent fell onto the floor.
“Quit driving like a maniac!” Catherine yelled.
He slammed on the brakes and gawked at her.
She covered her mouth with a hand. The dogs grumbled as they rearranged themselves in the back seat. She stared at the side mirror, expecting to see Easy pull in behind them. Clouds of dust hovered like haze over the driveway.
“You were happy and practically singing, then all the sudden you’re acting like a lunatic. You won’t talk to me, then you’re yelling. Is it hormones or something?”
His sexist comment earned him a dark glower.
He drove forward. “I will not have you yelling at me.”
Tell him, she urged herself, but could not find the words. “I guess my nerves are…I don’t know…I’m sorry, okay? Please forgive me.”
He pulled into the garage and shut off the Blazer’s engine.
“I’m so sorry. I desperately need a shower and a cup of coffee and a chance to pull myself together.” She pushed open the door and went around to the side door to let the dogs out. They gave Jeffrey canine equivalents of filthy looks before hopping out of the Blazer and stalking toward the house.
“You can’t treat me like this.”
For a moment he sounded so much like her father—cold and authoritarian—she froze, her mind gone blank. Ridiculous, she told herself. Jeffrey was nothing like her father.
She forced a smile and used her left hand to smooth hair off her face, exaggerating her movements so he noticed the engagement ring. With no sign of Easy or even the sound of a car engine, her agitation faded. Maybe she’d dreamed him up after all. “You’re wonderful and perfect and I do love you.”
He held out her car keys. When she opened her hand, he dropped them onto her palm. “And you’re nuts, lady. What am I going to do with you?” His voice was calm, but lines strained his brow and cheeks.
Catherine swallowed hard. His quiet fury frightened her in a way she couldn’t quite define. “I’m so sorry. Please say you forgive me and kiss me?”
He caught her shoulders in both hands and kissed her.
EASY RAN THROUGH his repertoire of dirty words—after spending four years as a military policeman, he knew plenty. None served to describe how he felt watching Catherine St. Clair kiss a killer.
He crouched at the base of a towering ponderosa pine, and peered through the thick foliage of a scrub oak. He watched Livman grasp Catherine’s shoulders and pull her close. She slid her arms around his waist and her right foot raised until only the toe of her running shoe rested on the ground. Intimate, familiar, comfortable—the sight turned Easy’s stomach.
Catherine patted Livman’s cheek and said something that caused the man to laugh. Easy tensed, wondering if they’d go inside now. Perhaps to shower together, to…
Catherine hopped lightly onto the deck. She wore satin running shorts, electric blue under the sun. Her ponytail bounced around her shoulders. Livman strode to a black BMW parked in the shade of the house. She waved and went inside.
Easy watched Livman guide the BMW carefully around potholes. Livman’s face was taut, angry-looking as he drove past. Easy waited until he was sure the man wasn’t coming back.
Catherine had spotted Easy at the park. That much he knew for certain. What he did not know was if she’d told Livman. And if she had, what she’d told him. Easy considered how she might react when he told her why he’d been tailing them. He suspected she wouldn’t clasp her hands and say, “My goodness, Jeffrey is a killer? Thank you for telling me. I’ll break up with him right away.”
He hefted the envelope he carried. The man was a creep. Other than his mother, few people seemed to like him. Some people acted afraid of him. Former employers all had the same thing to say: Livman talked a good line and had a gift for salesmanship, but he was unethical, dishonest and lazy. He didn’t get along with men, but actively cultivated relationships with women. Livman had been arrested twice, both times for beating girlfriends. Both times, the women dropped the charges.
Catherine could blow this investigation with a single phone call. Easy walked a fine line between protecting her and catching Livman.
The way they’d been kissing decided him. Livman moved fast; Easy had to move faster. He walked up to the house. Guessing she might slam the door in his face, he prepared himself for her anger. He rang the bell.
Catherine surprised him with a smile. A cold smile, true, but it beat having her yell at him. “Are you a stalker? Do I need to get a restraining order against you?”
She hadn’t lost her sense of humor. Her attitude gave him hope. “I’m not stalking you.”
“I see. You just happened to be at the park, and you just happened to follow me home. Coincidence?”
“No coincidence. I was tailing you.”
She laughed softly and swung her head side to side, so her pony tail curled like a lover’s hand around her slender neck. Her laughter pierced his heart, drumming up old emotions. Impulsively, he touched his fingertips to her cheek. He knew his mistake as soon as he felt warm silky skin and her eyes widened. She jerked her head away. She clamped her arms over her breasts, her shoulders hunched.
He crammed his hand in his back pocket “Can I have five minutes of your time? Please?” He turned on his most winning smile. “It’s important.”
Her eyes narrowed and she backed a step into the house. He seized upon what most courts would interpret as an invitation and walked inside. She huffed about his trespass, but didn’t throw him out. His hope flourished. At age sixteen she’d been different from any other girl he knew. Now a grown woman, perhaps she’d prove different than most women when presented with distressing news about a boyfriend.
The skinny dogs hopped off a sofa, ears pricked and eyes suspicious. The slightly larger brown-and-white male raised his hackles. Keeping a wary eye on the dogs, Easy paused by the door.
Catherine sized up her escape routes. Easy blocked the door, but she could reach the sliding glass doors in the adjoining wall, or make it down the stairs. She didn’t sense anything dangerous about him. While they dated he’d always been gentle with her, but a man could change in twelve years.
“I brought something for you.” He held up a white, nine-by-twelve-inch envelope.
Her mouth felt sticky. She’d seen the recent news stories about adoptions gone sour. Courts were favoring parental rights over the rights of children. She’d erred twelve years ago in not telling Easy about the child. She’d lied on the birth certificate about not knowing the father’s name. If he pressed the issue by taking her to court, he could learn what happened to Elizabeth. Or worse, he could fight for custody. Whether or not he successfully contested the adoption was moot. No matter what happened, he would destroy Elizabeth’s life.
He approached. She forced herself to stand fast. She tried not to notice his graceful, loose-hipped walk. She tried not to notice her own pounding heart. “The past is history, Easy. I did the right thing for our baby. Let it rest. Please.”
Her reference to his lost child stabbed through his heart. He clutched the envelope so tightly that paper crunched. He wanted to know what had happened to his daughter. He needed to know. He realized it with a certainty that infused his very bones and laid bare the massive hole in his life created when he lost Catherine.
“Even if you had known, it wouldn’t
have made any difference.” Her eyes went soft and pleading. “We were too young to get married and too young to raise a child. I did the right thing. Please accept it.”
He pulled his attention away from her. The spacious front room had been turned into an art studio. The walls were covered with anatomical posters. Easels held partially finished paintings. Old cups, mismatched vases and cans held arrangements of dried weeds and flowers. Cork boards were covered with photographs of animals. Plastic models ranging from dinosaurs to whales perched upon shelves. Bookshelves and tables overflowed with books and magazines. The place smelled of paint and chemicals, overlaid with an odor of something spicy cooking in the small kitchen off the studio.
“You’re an artist?” A stack of children’s books caught his attention. Elizabeth probably adored books.
“I illustrate children’s books.”
“You always did draw good pictures.” He glanced at the dogs. “I thought you were going to be a veterinarian. You were always taking care of sick birds and stuff. Remember the baby magpie?”
He placed the envelope carefully on a table, making certain she noticed it. He wanted to trace the fine sheen of sweat on her flushed skin, and rub her hair between his fingers. He wanted to kiss away all traces of Livman’s kiss from her mouth. He made himself stand in place; his joints ached with the effort.
Her gaze went distant, softening the tense muscles of her face. A trace of a smile curved her lips. “You named it Bosco. That was a dumb name for a bird.”
“Mom almost had a heart attack when she found it in my room. But we saved its life.”
She fussed with a messy stack of magazines. When she finally turned to him, all traces of fear had left her face. Even if Livman weren’t a stone-cold killer, Easy didn’t want the man touching her.
“I’m sorry for how I acted the other day. I don’t usually lose my temper like that. Please forgive me.”
Humbled by her apology, he remembered vividly why he’d loved her so much. Around her, he’d always felt like a man. Even at sixteen, she’d had class. Drawn by her shining eyes, he leaned closer to her, catching a whiff of sweet womanly scent heightened by her exercise-warmed skin. He stared into her eyes, mesmerized by their sparkling azure shadowed by lush brown lashes. Her pupils swelled and her eyelids lowered, darkening her eyes into mysterious pools. He drowned gladly.
Don’t, she thought. Don’t look at him, don’t stand so close, don’t remember….
The warnings in her head proved no defense against the burning intensity of his eyes. He cupped her chin in a gentle hand, lifting her face, and she was powerless, trapped as if in a dream from which her desire to escape was as weak as wisps of fog. His hand was cool against her skin. His breath was warm.
His lips were velvet.
She sprang away, gasping. “Who do you think you are?” In her haste to escape, she struck a table with her hip. Several cans of fixative clattered to the floor. She grabbed blindly for them.
He looked dazed. He raked a hand through his hair, mussing it into spikes.
“It’s over!” She thrust out her left hand, showing him the ring. “I’m engaged. I have a life. You can’t interfere. I won’t let you.”
His mouth fell open. “You can’t marry Jeffrey Livman!”
“I can and I will—” Now she realized the danger. Easy had been doing a lot more than merely following her around. For all she knew his impulsive nature had evolved into an obsessive-compulsive disorder. “How in the world do you know about Jeffrey?”
“I’m a private investigator.” He spoke in a rush, his voice harsh. “I’m not interfering in your life, I’m trying to save it. Jeffrey Livman murdered his wife, and now he’s targeted you. I knew you wouldn’t take my word for it, so I put together some hard information. It’s in the envelope. Read it.”
She wished she knew as much about mental disorders as she did about animal anatomy. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to handle his delusions. She clamped down on the urge to shout and threaten. If she angered him, he’d eventually get around to figuring out how to destroy her in court. “Okay, I’ll read it.”
The dogs crowded her legs. Oscar growled, an ominous rumbling from deep in his chest. She rested a hand on his head.
“I have a lot to do,” she said. “Is there a number where I can reach you?”
“Don’t blow me off, Tink. This isn’t a joke. Jeffrey Livman is a stone-cold killer. He collected half a million dollars from his wife’s death. He’ll do the same thing to you.”
“I’m sure you only mean the best for me.” She nodded, hoping to impress him with a show of credulity. “I’ll read your stuff. But I do have a lot to do and I really can’t ask you to stay. I’ll call you. I promise.” After she called her attorney and found out what kind of options she’d have in a legal battle. “I promise, Easy. I will call you.”
She held her breath, waiting. The look he gave her ripped at her heart and made her mouth burn where his kiss had touched her. But he left her home.
She sprang after him and threw the dead bolt. She eyed the envelope he’d left behind. If he’d turned into a deranged stalker intent on destroying her life, she didn’t know what she’d do.
Chapter Four
Catherine glared at the envelope Easy had left behind. She scrubbed at her lips where his touch lingered, taunting her with old memories and hurts. She refused to remember how much she’d loved him—how much he’d loved her.
Oscar and Bent eyed her curiously.
“I don’t know what his game is,” she told the dogs, “but I’m not playing. He’s crazy. Completely out of his mind.”
Jeffrey murdered his wife. The accusation hung in the air like an odor.
He’d collected proof her fiancé was a murderer—ridiculous! Easy must consider her a complete dummy if he thought for a moment he could march in here and disrupt her life. She snatched up the envelope. A string looped around a paper button held the flap shut.
She stomped into the kitchen. She opened the cabinet under the sink and dropped the envelope into the garbage can. With her foot, she closed the cabinet and swiped her hands in good riddance.
She hummed old show tunes, the notes fierce in her attempt to not think about Easy, while she showered. Once clean, she used a towel to scrub at her wet hair while she sat on the edge of the bed. Her attention wandered to the framed photograph of Elizabeth’s substitute. The anonymous child’s dark eyes seemed to mock her: He never lied to you.
“I never caught him in a lie,” she whispered in rebuttal. “There’s a big difference.”
Scrubbing her hair, she wandered restlessly around the bedroom and out to the lower-level family room. The room was stark, far too large for the lone recliner and television set that furnished it. Old-fashioned panelling on the walls reminded her of the rumpus room in the basement of Easy’s parents’ home.
This house wasn’t pretty and it needed extensive remodeling, but it was home. She liked it fifty times better than the pristine, overdressed, oversize showplace where her parents lived. Catherine wondered if this house had appealed so much to her because it reminded her of the Martels’ place over on Uintah Street.
Troubled, she dried her hair and left it loose. After slathering moisturizing lotion on her hands and arms, she slid on her engagement ring.
She frowned at the flashy ring. Jeffrey murdered his wife.
Easy didn’t even know Jeffrey, who had never been married much less murdered anyone. Easy couldn’t know Jeffrey. The two men were as different as fire and water, and had nothing in common. Except he did know Jeffrey—somehow.
She went upstairs to the kitchen and jerked open the cabinet under the sink. Easy claimed to be a private eye. She found it difficult to reconcile the memory of a sports-crazy, impulsive, restless boy with a methodical, dogged investigator. It made as little sense as his insistence that her fiancé had murdered a woman.
Easy wanted Elizabeth. Now that made sense. She wondered how far he’d go to find th
eir daughter.
She slammed the cabinet shut and studied the kitchen. The old cabinets showed their age. The walls had been painted an odd shade of blue-green by the previous owners. When her next royalty check came in, she intended to redo the kitchen. She had plans for this house, plans for her life. Easy threatened her future, her happiness and her hard-won peace.
The telephone rang, startling her. Fearing it might be Easy, she waited for the answering machine to screen the call. Margaret’s brash voice insisted Catherine pick up the line.
Catherine snatched up the telephone. “I’m here! What’s up?” She noticed the light blinking on the answering machine, indicating she had other messages.
“I’m glad I caught you. We have a problem.”
Catherine chuckled, partly in relief because it was Margaret and not Easy, but mostly because Margaret thrived on crises and problems. “As long as you don’t make me speak in front of a crowd, I can handle it.”
“Does a press conference qualify as a crowd?”
It took a few seconds for her agent’s meaning to sink in. Catherine nearly choked. “Margaret! You know I hate publicity. I can’t do tours and press things. They make me crazy.” The mere idea of having to speak to a group of strangers filled her belly with ice.
“Settle down. You won’t actually have to say anything. All you have to do is stand there and look cute. You are cute, aren’t you? Do your publicity photos do you justice?”
Catherine groaned and sank onto a chair. “Spill it, Margaret. What’s going on?”
“I’ve been on the phone with Doc Halladay’s publicist The good doctor wants to meet you.”
Catherine had illustrated stories, books and articles for dozens of writers, none of whom she’d met face-to-face. She’d spoken to many of them on the telephone or via fax transmissions, but she’d never done a job that required personal contact. “Whatever for?”
“We’re dealing with television people. They spend the majority of their lives in meetings and at lunch. They like personal contact.”
