“She was only seventeen when I was born,” she said, continuing in that same flat tone. Her lips twisted into a bitter mockery of a smile. “My father, whom I fondly refer to as Wretched Bastard, was a caregiver at the day facility where she worked.”
Oh, Jesus, Jack thought, reeling. He set his fork aside. That sick son of a bitch. Because she was his only point of reference, Livvie immediately sprung to mind and he wondered what sort of man it took to do something like that—something so heinous—to a person so innocent. So purely good. He set his jaw so hard he feared it would crack.
He closed his eyes, summoning patience from a higher source, then opened them again. “Please tell me he did time.”
She snorted. “Not enough. Eighteen months.”
Jack swore hotly.
She cocked her head, shot him a sad smile. “Everyone always assumes that having a mother with Down’s had to be hard for me,” she said, her gaze tangling with his. “But it was exactly the opposite. My mother was good and kind and loved me with the same sort of devotion any mother ever loved a child. She was the gentlest, sweetest person I’ve ever known.” Her voice hardened. “Having that sort of evil for a father? Knowing that his tainted blood runs in my veins? That was the hard part.”
He could certainly see where that would be true. Talk about two opposite ends of the spectrum. No wonder she was unlike any person he’d ever met. Her history was definitely more unique than anyone in his experience.
“Sorry,” she said, giving her head a small shake. “I just find that it’s easier to get that little bit of information out of the way. There are pictures of her—of us—all over the apartment and since you’re going to be staying here…” She trailed off. “And it’s not something I hide,” she added, lifting her chin. “I was proud to be her daughter.”
He completely understood. And he had no doubt that her mother was equally proud of her.
She straightened, her posture heralding a subject change. “So what did Mr. Jefferson have to say?”
Though he knew he’d have to review this conversation again at some point later, Jack laughed and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You mean other than telling me to get married or learn to cook? Not a whole helluva lot actually.”
Her pale gray eyes widened significantly and she laughed, the sound unreserved, full and throaty. Sexy. “Get m-married or l-learn to c-cook?” she repeated, still chuckling under her breath. “What did you do to provoke such a lecture?”
“What did I do?” he parroted, feigning offense. “I didn’t do anything. I was merely looking at all the empty TV-dinner trays in his garbage can and that brought on the marriage sermon.”
She winced, her gaze softening with symphathy. “Poor Audwin,” she said. “I took a meal out there right after Martha died, but I haven’t been back since.” She paused thoughtfully. “I need to do that,” she said. “If nothing else I can start sending a few home-cooked things with Bobby Ray when he brings my delivery by.”
Ah. “Speaking of Bobby Ray,” Jack said leadingly. “What do you think of him?”
Mariette paused to look at him and, much like Audwin Jefferson, something akin to irritation flashed in her gaze. She lifted her chin a fraction of an inch—he loved that quirk—and the mulish gesture was so reminiscent of his sister he wondered if Charlie had taught it to her already. “I think he’s a sweet kid who’s had a hardscrabble life and is constantly judged on his appearance rather than who he is underneath those scars.” She nodded succinctly. “That’s what I think of Bobby Ray. I am absolutely certain he has nothing to do with this.”
All righty then. “Retract the claws, please, Mariette,” Jack told her placatingly, essaying a grin. Hey, underdogs, here’s your champion, he thought, admiring her spunk. “I’m not judging him on anything but the way he acted when I saw him at the dairy this afternoon.”
She blinked, evidently falling off her soapbox. “How was he acting at the dairy? What do you mean?”
Jack hesitated, trying to pinpoint exactly what it was about the kid’s behavior that had signaled a misgiving, set off an alarm. “He was bit squirrely,” he said. “Unaccountably nervous.”
“You’re huge,” she said, gesturing with a breezy hand to his body as though it should be obvious. “He was probably terrified of you.”
Jack winced and passed a palm over his face to wipe away a smile. “You keep this up and I’m going to get a complex. Jolly Green Giant. Huge.” His gaze tangled with hers. “I’m tall, Mariette,” he explained with exaggerated patience. “The word you’re looking for is tall.”
Her eyes twinkled with unabashed humor and something else, something almost…sinful and damned sure dangerous. “Right,” she said, nodding in concession. “No need to freak out. You’re tall.” She looked away, her eyes widening significantly, and chewed the corner of her mouth. “And a wee bit sensitive, evidently.”
Jack laughed and shook his head. “Smart-ass.”
She shrugged unrepentantly. “It’s a gift,” she quipped. She stood then and began clearing the table. “So, is that what you and Charlie were talking about then? Bobby Ray?”
Jack stood, as well, brought his plate into the kitchen, rinsed it off and loaded it into the dishwasher. She’d paused and was staring at him, seemingly transfixed.
“What?” he asked, perplexed at her expression. “Is there something on my face?”
“Are you married?”
That certainly came out of left field. Hadn’t they covered this? In a roundabout way, at least? “No.”
“Ever been married?”
“No.”
“Then who trained you?”
He blinked. “Come again?”
“You just got up from the table, rinsed your plate and loaded it into the dishwasher. That’s learned behavior. It’s not normal to your kind.”
He laughed out loud, the sound a bit rusty from disuse. Clearly it had been too long since he’d really laughed. “My kind? What am I? Some sort of foreign species?”
She shot him a speculative glance, one that seemed to peer directly into his brain, and grinned. “I don’t know what you are, but you aren’t normal, that’s for sure.”
Well, if lazy assholes who didn’t appreciate a meal well enough to help clean up was her normal then he was glad, in this instance, to be abnormal. Of course, this line of thought brought on a completely new set of questions, ones he didn’t have any right to ask. If he was the exception to the rule, then who had been the guy—or guys, he thought ominously—who’d made it? Who’d been the lazy, ungrateful dickhead who’d set the damned precedent?
He instantly hated him, whoever he was.
Irrational? Most definitely. He cast a brooding glance at Mariette, who was busy dumping the leftover salad into a plastic container. The overhead light cast a golden glow over her dark hair, picking up the rich auburn tones. He loved her hair. It was long and hung in wavy layers that framed her face and curled ever so slightly around her beautiful, full breasts.
Longing knifed through him, cutting him to the quick. Heat raced through his blood and settled in his groin and his fingers itched with the need to touch her, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked. Particularly the smooth line of it that ran over her jaw. He caught her particular scent, something slightly exotic with vanilla undertones.
She wore a long-sleeve, lime-green shirt with her logo emblazoned on the pocket and a pair of jeans that were worn and comfortable looking. They didn’t so much hug her frame as caress it, molding around her curves as though they’d been especially designed with her in mind. She’d kicked off her shoes—he’d noticed them by the door when he’d come in—and was padding around in her socked feet.
There was something especially endearing about that, but for the life of him he couldn’t have explained why. Th
ey were feet, for heaven’s sake. And the socks were cute, inasmuch as he imagined socks could be. Hers were white with little black Scottie dogs scattered all over them. The dogs were wearing red bowties.
She paused and her gaze followed his. She wiggled her toes and grinned. “Don’t make fun,” she said. “Livvie gave them to me.”
He leaned a hip against the countertop. “I wasn’t going to make fun. I like them.”
Her smile widened. “I’ll tell her so that she can get you a pair, as well. You never answered my question.”
“What question? There’s been a question amid all the insults you’ve hurled in my direction?” he teased.
She ducked her head. “Showing me your sensitive side again, are you?”
Jack took a deep breath. “Honest to God, woman, you—”
Her gaze slid away from his, but he caught the curl of her lips all the same. “I’d asked you if that’s what you and Charlie had been talking about,” she interrupted. “Bobby Ray?” she prodded.
Oh. Right. “As a matter of fact, yes,” he said, reminded of his real purpose here. Flirting, fun as it was proving to be, wasn’t it, dammit. “I know that you think that he’s not involved in this, but I still believe he bears a little investigation.”
Skepticism wrinkled her otherwise smooth brow. “Based on him being ‘nervous’?”
“Physical tells are just as significant as verbal ones.”
She momentarily stilled, then looked over at him. “What do you mean?”
How odd. If he didn’t know any better he’d think she was the nervous one. But what the hell could she possibly have to hide?
“I mean that sometimes our actions give us away long before our mouths do.” His gaze dropped to hers and he had to force it back up. Exactly like that, he wanted to say.
She licked her lips and swallowed. More torture. “He could have been nervous for a variety of reasons, couldn’t he? Did you talk to anyone else at the dairy? Anyone besides Audwin?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I’ve got a background check running on Bobby Ray and am going to do the same thing with the rest of Mr. Jefferson’s employees. If there’s a red flag, then I’ll find it.”
“But not Audwin?” she asked, a smile playing over her lips. “What makes you so certain that it wasn’t him who threw the dough roller at me?”
Jack crossed his arms over his chest and studied her for a moment, then came to an interesting conclusion. She was arguing for the simple sport of it. How bizarre that he found that attractive, when he couldn’t remember ever liking this sort of conversation before. Of course, he wasn’t used to a woman arguing with him. No brag, just fact. They typically agreed with everything he said and fell right into bed with him. He’d always liked that—it was expedient, uncomplicated—but wasn’t so sure he would now. She’d…changed things.
Damn.
“You said your attacker was tall and skinny,” he told her, determined to prove his point, if for no other reason than to show her that he could. “Audwin is not. He’s on the short side with a potbelly, and I’d be willing to bet if I looked in his closet he wouldn’t have a sweatshirt much less a hoodie.” He shot her a grin. “I am certain, however, that I would find lots of flannel. Furthermore, Audwin is left-handed and based on the way you described what happened, your guy threw with his right hand. Additionally, Audwin’s hands are so riddled with arthritis I doubt he could grasp a rolling pin well enough to pick it up, much less throw it at you with any accuracy whatsoever.” He pulled a shrug. “Based on those things I was able to rule him out as our possible offender.”
She blinked owlishly at him for a moment, evidently absorbing that information. “And you got all of that from what little I said and one meeting with Audwin?”
He nodded. “I did.”
She looked insultingly surprised. “Well, I guess you know what you’re doing, then.”
A dry bark of laughter erupted from his throat before he could stop it. Talk about damning with faint praise. He’d been a friggin’ Ranger, dammit. One of the best trained soldiers on the planet. “One would hope.”
She had the grace to blush. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That didn’t come out exactly the way I’d intended. I’m sure you know what you’re doing. It’s just that there’s really not that much to go on. Payne can’t leave you here indefinitely and—”
Jack chuckled and shook his head. “Do you know Brian Payne?”
She frowned. “Well, of course I know him. I’ve known him for years. He—”
“Then you know that once he’s taken something on he’s not going to let it go until it’s finished.” He leveled a look at her. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me until then.”
Her eyes rounded and she muttered a curse. “It’s not that. I don’t mind that you’re here, really.”
He just stared at her.
“I don’t!” she insisted. “I don’t like being told what to do and that’s how this whole thing was presented—after I’d been knocked unconscious, by the way, so I wasn’t really at my best—but I honestly don’t mind and I’m genuinely grateful that I have friends who want to protect me.” She swallowed. “It means a lot.”
A woman who didn’t like being told what to do? How novel, Jack thought with a snort. And he supposed having her home and place of business seemingly hijacked after another asshole had broken in and assaulted her would make her feel a bit out of control. He couldn’t fault her for that.
He smiled and released a deep breath. “It means a lot to me, as well. This is my first case and if I can’t catch a damned Butter Bandit, then I’m in the wrong line of work.”
She lifted her shoulders in a weak shrug and grinned wanly. “He’s slippery.”
“He’s an amateur who has gotten lucky,” Jack told her, laughing at the bad pun. “I also think he’s someone who is familiar with your setup here, otherwise he wouldn’t know exactly what he was doing.”
She winced. “I’d actually thought about that.” She pursed her lips. “I still don’t think it’s Bobby Ray.”
Interestingly enough, she didn’t sound nearly as convinced as she had before. He hated to destroy her illusions about the boy, but there was something not right there. Call it a gut instinct, a premonition, a second sense or whatever, but every bit of intuition he possessed told him that the boy was involved somehow.
And Mariette wasn’t the only one who was going to be hurt if Bobby Ray was ultimately behind this—Audwin Jefferson would be, as well. The older man had been just as quick—if not quicker—to jump to Bobby Ray’s defense.
And if both of them were willing to stick up for him, then they had to see something in him that compelled that sort of response. Audwin seemed like a decent enough judge of character and, no longer than he’d known Mariette, he could tell she wasn’t the sort of person who wasted her regard on those who didn’t deserve it.
There was much more to this than what met the eye, Jack decided. He just hoped he was able to find out what that was before any more damage was done.
Mariette hid a yawn behind her hand.
“You must be exhausted,” Jack told her. “You couldn’t have gotten much sleep last night.”
“Not of the restful sort, no,” she admitted. “I keep early hours. I’m normally in the bakery by 4:00 a.m.”
“Four?” Damn. That was early.
“I have a two-day policy,” Mariette told him. “If something sits in the case for more than forty-eight hours it goes to various agencies around the city—I don’t throw them out. I can’t abide the waste. But I like to keep the front stocked with my freshest products. That means all new stuff every other day.”
He nodded, impressed. “It seems to be working for you.”
“It is,” she confirmed, a rather pleas
ed tilt to her ripe little mouth. “But I work hard, so that’s only fair, right?”
“Most definitely.” His gaze drifted over her face, noting the fatigue weighting her lids. “Why don’t you go on to bed, then? I’ll keep watch.”
“All night?” she asked, evidently alarmed. “But when are you supposed to sleep?”
“I’ll sleep,” he told her. “I’ve got to set some alarms for the doors and windows and I’m going to review some stuff that Payne was supposed to forward to me. I’ll catnap,” he assured her, touched by her concern. He was used to his mother and sister fussing over him, but this was a new experience. Pleasant as it was, he wasn’t altogether sure he liked it. “I’m used to long hours.”
And he fully expected the ones that loomed in front of him to be some of the longest he’d ever experienced.
The hottest, most interesting woman he’d ever met sleeping in a bed mere feet from him—and she had to be off-limits.
Nothing more than self-preservation told him that.
6
DESPITE THE FACT THAT she was beyond exhausted, Mariette couldn’t sleep. Typically, this wasn’t a problem. Because she wasn’t the sort of person who could leap out of bed and be happy and alert and ready to conquer the day—rah! rah! rah!—she was up at three, coffee in hand by three oh five. She liked to check her email, update the website for the shop and ease gently into her morning, like slipping into a warm bath.
By the time she’d had breakfast, showered and tidied up her apartment she was grounded enough in her own company to be able to face the day. From the moment she went downstairs until after 6:00 p.m., she didn’t get a single minute to herself unless it was to go to the bathroom.
And she was open seven days a week. The church crowd always came by on Sunday mornings and, until she got the bulk of her equipment paid for and her mortgage paid off, she didn’t anticipate being able to change her hours or take a full day off. She did close at one on Sundays, but ordinarily used that time to try new recipes and perfect others, and if she wasn’t doing that, then she was hosting birthday parties, baby showers or bridal teas.
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