Yes.
Watching her, Jazz decided that was the whole problem right there. She had done what he had wanted to do, and in no time flat. Before he had even figured out how he had to get started, she had asked all the right questions, looked in all the right places, and boom, problem solved.
She’d hit a nerve, Anne-Marie realized. She planted her hands on her hips and studied him with cool eyes. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she asked levelly. When he looked away, she said, “I’ve got a brain, Jazz. And I have my own sense of honor. Did it ever occur to you that I felt I owed you this, for what you’ve suffered?”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“That’s not how I see it.”
Turning back to her, Jazz asked woodenly, “So is that what the past few weeks have been about? You trying to make it up to me? I wouldn’t take money or anything, so you provided free bed-warming services?”
Her hands fell slackly to her sides, mouth open in a silent ‘o’, eyes going dark with surprised hurt. Roughly, she whispered, “Damn you, Jazz.” Tears rose in her eyes before she blinked them away. Face pale, hands shaking, Anne-Marie turned away. “Get out.”
“Anne—”
“Get out,” she hissed, whirling around to face him. “If that’s your opinion of me, then get out.”
Reaching for her, bitter regret burning through him, Jazz whispered, “I’m sorry, Annie. I shouldn’t have said that.”
She evaded his hands, raising her own to ward him off. “If you hadn’t thought it, you wouldn’t have said it. Apparently, these past few weeks haven’t meant the same thing to you that they meant to me. We’ve nothing more to say to each other.”
“Annie—”
“Get out!” she shouted, pulling back and turning on her heel. Tears spilling over, she tore up the stairs and threw herself on the bed.
Vindication didn’t feel as good as it should have, Jazz was discovering. Not only was Anne-Marie still avoiding him after more than a week, he couldn’t go anywhere without being hailed down for a twenty minutes conversation.
Walking down the street was a chore. People he hardly knew and people he did know and disliked, all stopped him to chat, overly friendly and contrite. Jazz stood woodenly, staring into space while Betsy Crane went on and on about how she sensed something was wrong, you know?
Finally, he glanced at his bare wrist. “Oh, look at the time,” Jazz drawled. “I’m supposed to meet my cousin in just a few minutes.” He took off down the sidewalk at a fast walk, his jaw clenched.
“Jazz.”
His rapid stride slowed, and then stopped. Looking in the doorway of Greene County Cardiology, he met the dark green eyes of Desmond Kincaid. Eyes that were sad and very tired. Eyes so like Anne-Marie’s, it hurt him to even look at them.
“Doc Kincaid,” he greeted, linking his hands behind his back to keep from fidgeting.
“I’ve been wanting to speak with you,” Desmond said, reaching into his pocket for a cigar. He gestured with it and gave a half-hearted smile. “You won’t go telling Anne-Marie now, will you?”
With a negligent shrug of his shoulders, Jazz remained silent, waiting.
“Oh, that’s right. You two haven’t been speaking much of late, have you?”
When Jazz didn’t answer, Desmond sighed. “Why don’t you come inside a bit?”
The refusal that leaped to the tip of his tongue wouldn’t come out. After so many years of listening to, obeying and respecting Desmond Kincaid, Jazz simply couldn’t turn his back on the man. He followed him up the stairs, through the waiting room, down a hall into an office done in blues and grays.
Desmond took his seat behind his desk, shoving a pile of charts to the side. With an absent frown, he jotted something on a sticky note and put it on the front of a particularly fat chart.
“I came in to check on a few things. A colleague of mine has been handling my patients.” His emerald green eyes met Jazz’s over the tops of his glasses. “Did Anne-Marie tell you I’m selling the practice?”
“Ah, no. No, she didn’t.”
“Yes. Dr. Moss is taking over in the fall. Grew up about forty miles away from here and wanted to come home to set up his own practice. I took care of him, oh, say about thirty-five years ago. He had a Tetratrology of Fallot, a nasty mess his heart was. Back then, it was a considered a miracle if the child made it. His mother, now…she says I was her miracle. But I don’t see it that way. He was mine. They all were, in every way, their own little miracles. The boy says I was his inspiration.
“Now he’s been a miracle two times over. He’s been the answer to my prayers.” Desmond’s eyes fell to his wide-palmed, long-fingered hands. The fingers flexed and spread before clenching into fists. With a slight chuckle, Desmond looked up. “My hands are starting to shake, you know. It was there for a while, but it’s gotten worse since…since that night. I’ve already done my last surgery.”
“I’m sorry.”
Sighing, Desmond leaned back into the navy blue leather, his head falling back to stare up at the ceiling. “So am I. I’ll miss this. But once a surgeon’s hands start to shake, that’s it.” With a negligent shrug of his shoulders, he straightened in the chair and folded his hands on the desk top. “There was a time when I hoped Anne-Marie would follow in my footsteps, be a cardiologist. But she’s found her niche, I must say.”
“She’s an excellent doctor,” Jazz said, remembering the follow up visit. Anne had handled the nervous Mariah like an old pro. “Kids love her.”
“My Annie is a very lovable person all around,” Desmond said, his eyes knowing. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk with you about.” The humor, the pride, the love all melted from his face, replaced by an achingly sad expression.
“I owe you an apology, Jasper. Not just for not questioning this, but for the crash that my son caused,” Desmond said, grief lining his face, weighing heavily on his shoulders.
“You had no reason not to believe an officer of the law,” Jazz responded in a flat voice, jamming his fisted hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“Oh, hell. Don’t give me that, boy,” Desmond snapped. “I’ve seen cockroaches more capable than Larry Muldoon. And I was an idiot for not calling him out. I knew something wasn’t right.” Pausing, he ran a shaky hand through his salt and pepper hair.
“I knew it,” he repeated huskily. “But I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to think that Alex was responsible for the accident. It was easier to deal with when I had somebody to blame.”
Jazz turned away, focusing his stinging eyes on a weepy watercolor. “Doc, it’s all over now. Over and done with.”
“But my mistakes are still there. I should have believed in you. Some people did from the start.” Desmond looked down at a framed picture of Anne-Marie. Reaching out, he touched his fingers to the image of his daughter’s face. “And I should have, as well.”
Clamping the cigar in his teeth, Desmond raised his head, met Jazz’s eyes. “She did it the way she felt she had to, Jazz. For you. Not for herself, not for Alex. Not even for me. But for you. Muldoon wronged you and she wanted him to pay. Had she gone to you, you would have handed him his punishment. And she felt it was her responsibility.
“Don’t blame her for doing the same thing you would have done,” Desmond said quietly.
“She won’t talk to me,” Jazz burst out, shooting up out of his chair. “What in the hell am I supposed to do?”
“How about admitting you’re wrong?” Desmond suggested, raising a bushy, black brow.
“Damn it, she should have told me! Sharing my bed—”
Any discomfort Desmond might have felt faded at the stunned embarrassment that filled Jazz’s eyes and colored his dark face. Chuckling, he tapped out his half-finished Cuban as he said, “If you think I don’t see what’s been going on between you two, then you must also think I’m a fool.”
Jazz’s mouth opened and closed noiselessly and he finally gave up, jamming his hands in hi
s pockets and turning away.
“Sharing your bed, sharing your life, that’s all the more reason for her to want to do right by you, Jazz. Your pride may be hurt, you not handling Muldoon personally. But Anne’s a modern woman; she wants a partner, not a man to protect her.”
The door to her office flew open, revealing Jazz standing there glaring at her, brows low over his eyes, hostility radiating from him. “I was wrong,” he growled. “You were right about my pride being hurt and I took it out on you.”
Leaning back in her chair, her calm face revealing nothing, Anne-Marie said, “Nice to see you, too, Jazz. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
Nine days, twelve hours and forty minutes, she thought. But who was counting?
“Don’t give me that look,” he warned, pointing at her. “You and your dad, lifting that eyebrow, royalty facing the serfs.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“Damn it, if you don’t want my apology, then just say so,” he shouted, storming into the tiny office. Eyes narrowed, he leaned forward and planted his hands on her neatly organized desk.
“An apology? Is that what this is?”
“Why in hell else would I be here?” he growled.
“Well, from the looks of it, I’d say you’re here to yell at me some more,” Anne-Marie replied, her eyes drifting down to the palms on her desk. “Usually apologies aren’t handled by barging into somebody’s office and yelling at them.”
Jazz’s eyes dropped to his hands, before glancing behind him to the interested audience just outside the door. Slowly, he took a deep breath and then blew it out.
“Can we go someplace private?”
Flicking her gaze to the staff that gathered just beyond her door, listening with obvious and unapologetic curiosity, Anne-Marie feigned indifference. “This is about as much privacy as I figure we are going to need. I’ve patients yet to see.”
“We need to talk,” Jazz said, keeping his voice low and calm.
She raised her solemn gaze to those outside her door, lifted that regal brow at them. As they drifted away, ears still straining, Anne-Marie lifted a silver-barreled pen and spun it idly between her palms. After a moment, when she was sure her voice would be composed, she said, “I needed you to believe in me, to try to understand.”
“I’m sorry.”
Looking at him, Anne-Marie said, “I know you are. And I can understand why you were upset, why you were hurt. I know I hurt your pride and I’m sorry it happened. But I did it the way I felt was right. The way that kept you out of jail.” Pausing, she nibbled at her lip, thinking, picking her way through her tangled emotions. “You would have gone after him, Jazz. And quite possibly killed him. That wouldn’t have gained you anything.”
“I was wrong, Annie. That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Jazz said.
“Apology accepted.” With a sigh, she turned her attention back to the open chart in front of her, the words blurring together while he stared at her lowered head.
“Then why aren’t you looking at me? Why don’t you stand up and come to me?” Jazz asked.
“There’s no reason. You think I spent all that time with you just to make up for the past sixteen years. With you feeling that way, it made me realize we don’t have what I was thinking, hoping, we might.”
“Don’t shut me out, Annie,” Jazz whispered, shoulders slumping as he turned away and pressed his hands against his eyes. “That was a damned fool thing to say. I don’t believe that’s what’s been going on between us.”
“What is going on between us?”
Raising his head, he met her eyes. “I don’t know. But I don’t want it to end like this. And I don’t want to go on the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if I wasn’t an idiot.”
She didn’t move at first, didn’t speak. Then she started towards him and slowly, he felt his heart start to beat again. He could breathe again. She slid her arms around his waist and he finally felt whole.
“I think maybe you should stop being an idiot so we can figure this thing out,” Anne-Marie suggested.
He could have laughed with relief, but he was too busy kissing her.
Tate’s voice echoed through the station house as he shouted at Jazz. “I’ve still got an unsolved attempted murder on my hands. And an unsolved murder. I’ve got to deal with Eleanor Park, and God knows, she is a full-blown lunatic. I ain’t got time to sit around babysitting you, Cousin.”
Eye to eye, snarl to snarl, Jazz responded to Tate’s comment with a sneer. “Babysitting?” Jazz shouted, poking Tate in the chest. “Boy, I hauled your chubby butt out of the fire more times than I can count. I don’t need a damned babysitter and I got a damned right to know what in the hell is going on with the investigation.”
“The hell you do. You’re no blood kin to him, thank God. And you’re neither a suspect or a witness. You’ll hear something when I have something to say,” Tate said, his voice cold and flat.
From the doorway, Marlie bit back a sigh of appreciation as Jazz responded with a rather rude suggestion. Tate’s response was, “Is that some sick fetish you picked up in the big city?”
How could there be two men that good-looking in one small town?
“They are something, aren’t they?”
Startled, Marlie turned her head and stared into the amused eyes of Dr. Anne-Marie Kincaid. “Um, well, yes. I guess so.”
Chuckling, Anne-Marie said, “Girl, you got eyes. You can do better than that.” She propped one blazer-clad shoulder against the doorframe, her eyes resting on Jazz’s profile. “I know I’ve noticed it more than once myself.”
“They are gorgeous,” Marlie said under her breath, rolling her eyes at Anne-Marie’s friendly laugh.
“How long have you been in love with him?”
“I…I beg your pardon?”
With a nonchalant shrug, Anne-Marie said, “I’ve been in love with Jazz most of my life. I know the symptoms. Does he know?”
“Of course not,” Marlie replied, shoulders slumping. “It’s too pathetic to even think about.”
“I don’t think it’s pathetic at all.”
Turning her head, Marlie stared into kind, knowing eyes. “He’s the sheriff, the son of a good, decent woman and a man who died rescuing a woman he didn’t know from Eve,” Marlie said softly, shaking her head. “I’m the daughter of the town drunk and bully, and Mama, God bless her, was the town tramp. I barely managed to graduate from high school and he’s the town sheriff. It’s beyond pathetic.”
“I doubt Tate sees it that way,” Anne-Marie said. Making an impulsive decision, she linked arms with Marlie and called out, “Well, if that sight don’t just set my heart all aflutter.”
The shouting-getting-ready-to-turn-into-shoving-match halted and two identical, dark pair of eyes turned their way. Each pair of eyes lit and traveled over the attractive pair in the doorway. All silver and blonde and dark blue eyes, Marlie wore a simple pink blouse tucked into white denim shorts. And Anne-Marie, ebony hair and emerald green eyes, with her confident smile and elegant clothes.
Both men felt their hearts stutter in their chest as they backed away from each other.
“Marlie and I ran into each other and thought you two would join us for lunch,” Anne-Marlie said, none too subtly dragging Marlie forward. “It’s Saturday, after all. Tate surely you know what they say about all work and no play.”
“Now, Doc Kincaid, you and I both know the job of serving the public isn’t one that runs on a forty-hour work week,” Tate drawled before looking at Marlie. She was so damned pretty, he thought. And not a good actress at all. The nerves and embarrassment in her dark blue eyes was every bit as apparent as the humor in Anne-Marie’s green ones. “Marlie, how are you?”
“I…I’m fine, Tate. Thank you,” she murmured, apparently giving up on the attempt to free her arm from Anne-Marie’s. Her cheeks turned fiery red when Jazz said, “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I turn down the chance to spend an afternoon
with a couple of lovely ladies.”
Marlie’s eyes darted away as Jazz captured Anne-Marie’s free hand and brushed her cheek with a soft kiss. “How are you holding up, Miz Muldoon?” he asked, raising his head and smiling gently at her.
“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. McNeil,” she said softly.
“Mr. McNeil?” he repeated, a smile lighting his face. “Hell, Marlie. We’re family, in a distant, convoluted sort of way. You can call me Jazz.”
It was the first time that Anne-Marie knew of that he referred to the Muldoon family with anything other than hate and bitterness. But she knew Jazz; he was too kind to dislike Marlie simply because she was unfortunate enough to be born into the Muldoon family. “So, are you two coming to lunch or what?” she asked, tipping her head back and smiling at him.
“Only if I can sit next to the pretty doctor,” Jazz answered. Tossing his cousin an irritated look, he said, “You can stay here and work your ass off, Tate. We can finish this later.”
“Nothing to finish,” Tate responded amiably. “You think I’m going to let you loose on these two ladies?”
“What was that all about?” Anne-Marie asked, glancing in her rearview mirror before backing out of the parking space. Just ahead of her, Tate and Marlie were pulling away from the curb.
“What?”
“That shouting match between you and Tate. Or maybe it wasn’t a match. You were doing all the shouting.” Looking at him sideways, Anne-Marie asked, “Was it about Larry Muldoon?”
Sighing, Jazz said, “It was about the whole damned thing. Your dad, Larry. I’m tired of being in the dark.”
“It’s a job for the law, Jazz. Not you.”
“It concerns me every bit as much it does Tate. More, because it affects you.”
“And why does that matter so much?” she asked quietly.
For the Love of Jazz Page 17
