by Sheryl Lynn
“Everybody is delusional.” She picked up her coffee and stepped around him. “Nobody knows anyone else.”
“I know you.”
She stopped in her tracks. Cradling the heavy coffee mug in both hands, feeling the heat in her palms, her entire body seemed to go on alert.
“I know you’re as sensitive as a wild bird.” His voice dropped and softened, flowing like honey around her ears. “You hold the hurts inside. You’re smart, smarter than anyone I’ve ever known. You don’t make friends easily, but when you do, you’re friends for life.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’re more likely to cry when something touches your heart than if you’re hurt. You don’t know how beautiful you are and you probably never will. Somehow that makes you even more beautiful.”
Her restless dreams of him came back to her, tormenting her with memories and loss. “I’ve changed, Easy.” She hated how weak she sounded. Her voice was positively breathless. “I’m not a shy little girl overly impressed by your words anymore.”
“I’m not trying to impress you.” He tugged on her shoulder until she turned around to face him.
She knew better than to look at his eyes. His beautiful, expressive dark eyes had always been her downfall. She stared at the stitched-on pocket on the front of his dark green T-shirt.
“John is paying me good money for this investigation. I’m duty-bound to do the best job I can. But I’m in no way trying to earn my keep at your expense.”
“If you say, ‘but I don’t want to hurt you,’ I will slap you.” She risked a peek at his now-solemn face. “My whole life is falling apart because of you.”
“I’m trying to save your life.”
“You always were given to dramatics.” She stalked out of the kitchen. “I have a lot of work to do. I have to finish these illustrations. My bills and files need updating. The house is a mess. Thanks for stopping by.”
“Damn it, Catherine! You’re being stubborn.”
She flinched at his passionate outcry. He loved to argue, to debate an issue for hours, or even days or weeks. Hoping he’d meekly leave her alone was foolishness on her part.
“I can be stubborn, too.” To emphasize the words, he flopped onto a chair.
Finished eating, Oscar and Bent wandered into the studio. They hopped onto the sofa and stretched out their long legs. They looked between the humans as if watching a play.
Frustrated as much by her own inability to get ugly by throwing him out as by his stubbornness, she huffed her displeasure. She perched on a stool.
“Let’s get something straight,” he said. “Twelve years ago I screwed up. You screwed up. We mutually screwed things up. You were scared, I was a jerk. I swear, Tink, if I could go back and do things over, I would. The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you. I’m not trying to hurt you now.”
Every fiber in her being yearned to hear—truly hear—what he said. She picked up a watercolor pen and toyed with the plastic cap.
“Tell me the truth. If you hadn’t been pregnant, would you have gotten so mad at me?”
She opened her mouth to state that she most assuredly would have. What he did had been unforgivable. But…had it been? Teenage boys, she remembered too well, were crude, lewd and none too bright. Even those with the best manners and best intentions had lapses of utter idiocy.
Unable to lie to him, she shook her head. “We’d have fought, but I would have gotten over it.”
“I didn’t know about the baby. I didn’t have a clue. If I did know, it wouldn’t have mattered if your parents sent you to Siberia, I’d have gone after you.”
She called herself a weak ninny for believing that, too. For wanting so much to believe. Her empty arms ached for the baby she’d never been able to mother. Her empty heart ached for Easy and what could never be.
“I’d like to know where Elizabeth is. I want to see for myself that she’s okay.” His shoulders tensed, a brief flexing of distress. “But that’s another matter. Another day. Right now the problem is Livman.”
Livman—she hated the way he spoke Jeffrey’s name, as if it were some sort of disease. Some plague to wipe off the face of the earth.
“You’re wasting your time. Jeffrey told me about his wife. He admits the marriage was a mistake. He doesn’t want anyone knowing, or even thinking, she killed herself. It’s Mr. Tupper you need to convince, not me.”
“Roberta wasn’t an alcoholic.”
“You knew her personally?”
“I’ve spoken to a lot of people who did. Her family, former friends, her employer.”
A frisson chilled her. “What employer?”
“Roberta was a loan originator. She worked for a mortgage company. Made good money, too.”
Loan originator…Catherine knew relatively little about financial matters or institutions, but she intuited a mortgage company needed to trust its employees. “She couldn’t hold a job. She was fired for embezzlement.”
Those thick eyebrows lifted skeptically. “I can get her employment records. I can back up everything I’m saying.”
Somehow Catherine didn’t doubt it for a second. She also felt little surprise that Jeffrey would have lied about Roberta’s character, too.
“So he says she was an unemployed, dishonest, unstable drunk. What kind of man slanders a dead woman?” He let the question dangle.
Catherine squirmed on the stool. Jeffrey’s tale of the doomed marriage, so poignant and heart-wrenching in the telling, now seemed self-serving. He’d made himself out to be a tragic hero, attempting to save the worthless life of a wretch. A sour taste filled her mouth.
She swallowed hard. “Are you sure she wasn’t drinking when she fell?”
“They checked during the autopsy. She hadn’t been drinking.”
Defeated, she worked the arches of her bare feet on the stool rung, her skin squeaking against the wood.
“Everybody I talked to says the same thing. Roberta was quiet, kind of shy and very sweet She loved children. John could always count on her as a baby-sitter. She never dated much. Her shyness came out around attractive men. Livman swept her off her feet. Everyone was surprised when she married him. They’d only known each other a short time.”
In a twisted way, Easy sounded as if he described Catherine. Short hairs raised on her nape and gooseflesh rose on her arms.
“After she married Livman, she changed. She grew quieter. She made mistakes she hadn’t made before. She called in sick to work a lot. She refused to. talk about her husband. She stopped socializing with anyone in the office.”
Easy rested his forearms on his thighs. His earnest expression held her rapt. “I’m no shrink, but I notice things about people. I see patterns. Roberta displayed all the symptoms of an abused wife. She was afraid of her husband and afraid to get anyone else involved.”
“Jeffrey would never hurt a fly.”
“Abusers aren’t all brutes with loud mouths and dirty habits. A lot of them are respectable men with good jobs and high positions. Your own father is a good example.”
She gasped. “Father never abused me.” Her back and shoulders ached with phantom bruises.
“Then you lied all those times I found you crying?”
Rapid blinking stopped the rise of tears, but no amount of swallowing could stop the thickening in her throat or the quivering of her chin. “It was different back then,” she whispered. “Parents used corporal punishment.”
Easy raised his hands, showing his palms. His eyes widened. “Fine, fine, I won’t go there.”
She hated him for knowing her so well, for being privy to all her secrets. Mumbling an excuse about freshening her coffee, she hurried to the kitchen. She wanted Easy gone, out of her life forever. He represented a period of her life as terrible as it was wonderful. She rested with her hands on the countertop, her head hanging, frightened by the pounding of her heart and how much it hurt to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” Easy said. He rested a hand between her shoulder blades. “That
was a low blow.”
He began rubbing her back with slow, sensual circles. She knew he must stop, she must stop him. He shouldn’t touch her, but no matter how much she tried, she could not make herself speak.
“Let’s run off and be cowboys.”
A smile caught her unawares. That had been their private joke. Back then, their big plan was to run away to Wyoming and own a cattle ranch. Whenever she had the blues or had fought with her parents, Easy would urge her to run off with him to Wyoming.
She turned around. His hand trailed over her shoulder. His thumb barely grazed her neck. His expression grew troubled.
“I won’t let you marry Livman.”
She mustered all the strength she had remaining. “He is not a murderer.”
“I don’t care if he’s president of the USA. You aren’t marrying him. You’re mine.” He grasped her shoulders, lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.
Chapter Seven
She knew he shouldn’t kiss her, but his hands soothed her; his lips warmed her. The wrongness of the situation tangled her thoughts, but still she held her face toward his, like a flower toward the sun, and reveled in the nurturing sweetness of his caress. A touch without pressure, without demand—a touch promising only heartache. Smooth lips, a teasing tongue, the slick fresh taste of him and his intoxicating scent swirling through her blood filled her with exquisite agony.
He held her shoulders. His hands were right, they belonged. Her body knew the rightness even while her mind protested. The voice of reason grew fainter, muffled by the soft press of flesh against flesh, then, finally, silenced by the tidal wave of memory.
She slid her hands around his waist, tentatively at first, then more boldly. She explored the lean muscularity of his back, so solid and so shockingly familiar. She reached for his face. Coarse beard stubble excited her. Deep pulsations of desire, thrumming through her veins, held her captive in his arms.
He broke the kiss with a gentle tugging at her lower lip, suckling for a moment as if loath to let her go. Tingling pleasure rippled low in her abdomen, alien and familiar at the same time.
“I can’t help it,” he said, his voice raw.
She swallowed hard. Forcing her eyelids open seemed as difficult as running up a steep hill. His face, his beautiful, expressive face, so quick to change, once upon a time so simple to read. Now an adult, he no longer wore his emotions on the surface for all the world to see. She recognized desire, though. She recognized torment.
“I am not yours,” she whispered. “You don’t know me. I’m not the same.”
She wanted to hate him. His crimes were many and severe. He threatened her happiness, he threatened her future. He roused memories best left buried. He ripped open her chest and brought into the light the emotions she no longer wished to feel.
“You’re mine. Always.”
He kissed her again, his urgency barely controlled. Her heartbeat echoed the desperation in his declaration. He tightened his hold around her body, nearly lifting her off the floor. She melted against him, wanting him…needing him.
Mustering all her strength, she broke the kiss and pushed him away. When he released her, she wanted to weep. From fear of needing him so much or from disappointment that he let her go, she did not know.
He plunged his hands into his pockets. Heat darkened his dusky cheeks. “I won’t let you marry Livman. I won’t let him hurt you.”
He’d accomplished at least part of his mission. Even if every single thing Easy had told her about Jeffrey were a lie, she knew she could never marry him. She could not spend the rest of her life with one man while yearning for another.
She stared miserably at the floor. “Please leave.”
“I’m not finished—”
“Go!” Her yell brought the dogs into the kitchen. She covered her mouth with a hand, appalled that this man could so easily rip away her peaceful facade. “Get out, Easy.”
He reached for her and she scrambled away. She flung up a hand, her palm flat and rigid. “You have to go. I can’t talk to you anymore. Just go.”
“I can’t let things drop.”
Fighting a rising panic, she pressed her lips stubbornly together. Finally, to her relief, he nodded, his eyes downcast, his posture subdued. He turned away. On his way out of the kitchen, he petted Oscar. His footsteps thudded softly on the wooden floor. Belly aching, eyes closed, she listened to the front door shut.
He wanted her…she wanted him. She hated him most of all for that
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS after leaving Catherine, Easy hadn’t finished kicking himself. Sure, he had unconventional methods and a weird sense of humor. Some of his clients thought he acted bizarrely at times, but he was, and remained, a pro. He did whatever jobs clients hired him to do, all the while remaining emotionally uninvolved. He found missing persons, checked criminal backgrounds and finances and staked out crooked employees. Except for that competitive thrill he enjoyed whenever he outsmarted the bad guys, he didn’t give a rat’s behind about them personally.
You’re mine…
“Idiot,” he grumbled. He stomped around the small office, glowering at the stacks of folders he needed to file, the pile of invoices he needed to complete and mail and the bills he needed to pay. He hated paperwork, but other than paperwork he had nothing to do. He’d cleared all his business, except for John Tupper, so he couldn’t dump the case no matter how much he wanted to. Without John paying for this investigation, he’d lose his motorcycle. As if fate conspired to keep him on the case, he hadn’t had a job lead in days. Nobody needed him—except Catherine.
The telephone rang. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone, but he needed work. He answered with a gruff hello.
Trish said, “Haven’t you had your coffee yet?”
He settled onto a chair, kicked his feet up on the desk and rubbed his eyes with the pads of his fingers. “Oh, it’s you.”
“I’m happy to hear your voice, too. What’s up?”
“Nothing. What’s up with you?”
“Since you’re such a bear, I’ll keep it short. John doesn’t want to bug you, but he’s dying to know what’s going on. So I’ll bug you. Have you learned anything new?”
The only thing he’d learned was what he’d known all along. Catherine St. Clair was the only woman he’d ever loved and the only woman he ever would. “Since yesterday? Nada.”
“Boy, you sound as though somebody shaved your head while you slept.”
He wished it were that simple. He sighed heavily. “I’m in over my head, sweet pea. That’s the bottom line. I don’t know squat about a murder investigation.”
“You’re the best at digging up dirt,” she protested. “You’re so shameless, I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“And you’re the sleaziest private eye I know. You—”
“Quit while you’re ahead.” Despite his mood, Trish’s teasing made him feel better. He swung his feet to the floor. “I’m out of my league. I never even investigated a-homicide while I was in the army. Con artists are my gig.”
“Jeffrey Livman is a con artist. Duh. He conned Roberta before he killed her.”
Her comment set off a ping deep in his chest. He’d been trying to dig up a corpus delicti—proving a crime had been committed. He’d concentrated all his energies and resources on trying to accomplish what trained, experienced investigators had failed to do. No wonder he beat himself against a wall.
“Easy?”
“You’re brilliant. We don’t have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he killed her. All we need is evidence that he set her up to take advantage of her death. Any civil jury will accept that.”
Trish cleared her throat. “I thought that was what you were doing?’’
He thumped his head. “I might have gotten Catherine into trouble. She thinks someone broke into her house. I’m betting it’s Livman.”
“Oh my God! Did he hurt her?”
“No. I don’t know if he’ll hurt
her unless he can profit, but I’m not taking the chance. Can you and John swing by my office today? Lunch?”
“It’ll have to be a late lunch. I have a meeting, but sure. What have you got in mind?”
“We need to rethink our strategy. Instead of focusing on what happened in the park, we need to figure out what happened up until then. How would you like to do some intelligence gathering? Some of Livman’s former coworkers are reluctant to speak to me, but they might talk to you.”
“Guys, right?”
“You got it, Mata Hari. Do you think John’s contacts will give him the details about the insurance policy?”
“Those kinds of files are highly confidential. You can’t—”
“Find out the name of the agent who sold the original policy,” Easy interrupted. “We don’t have to actually see the files. If this goes to court, subpoenas will take care of that”
“I hate it when you suck me in,” Trish muttered.
Easy took that as a yes. “Great. I’ll be in my office most of the day. See you at lunch.”
Energized, his mind roiling with a fresh strategy, he moved to the filing cabinet. With his hands working on autopilot and his brain racing at warp speed, he filed papers. If the pros couldn’t find hard evidence, it would take a lot more than dumb luck for Easy to find proof capable of standing up in a criminal case. A civil case, now, that was a different matter altogether. In a criminal case, the full burden of proof rested on the state. The defendant didn’t have to do anything except show up and demand fair legal procedure. In a civil case, however, both sides had to present evidence. Both sides had to defend and argue their case. Easy nearly salivated at the thought of Liv-man explaining his lies and conflicting stories.
John was willing to sue Livman for wrongful death. If he won, he’d make sure Livman didn’t keep a penny of the insurance money. Livman would be publicly exposed as a liar and an abuser of women. John, however, was not willing—and Easy didn’t blame him—to file suit unless he had a winnable case. As much as John loved Roberta, he wasn’t wealthy and he had a wife and children to consider. He couldn’t afford frivolity.
