by Hinze, Vicki
She did. Her eyes were wild. Certainty flooded through Parker. This incident wasn’t part of any con. The fear and shock in her were real. The air between them crackled with tension. He grabbed a towel hanging beside the sink and moved slowly toward her, speaking softly, in soothing tones. “It’s okay. Everything’s all right now.” Gently he wiped the lathered soap off of her face. “There, it’s gone.”
“It’s not gone,” she spat out.
He cupped her chin in his hand. “It’s over, Caron.”
“It’ll never be over.” Something flashed in her eyes. “You don’t understand!”
He held her face firmly, wet the edge of the towel, then rinsed her face. Her chin quivered, bumping the heel of his hand, tearing at his heartstrings. She was an emotional wreck, but more than just the message had done this to her. Forcing a calm he didn’t feel into his voice, he looked down at her. “Explain it to me, then. So I can understand.”
“I’ve been violated. A stranger has been in my home. He’s touched my things.” Her face drained of color. “My ...personal things.”
“What personal things?”
“He’ll be back, Parker.” She growled deep in her throat. “He’ll be back...and next time it’ll be my blood on the door.”
“No.” Pain wrenched in his chest.
“He will, damn it!” She shuddered. “I—I—”
“What?” Parker shook her shoulders. She was bordering on hysteria. “You what, Caron?”
“I...saw him.” Her head fell back, and she let out a guttural growl. “Oh, God, Parker, I saw him kill me!”
Her knees gave out. Parker scooped her up and cradled her against his chest. She buried her face at his neck, and he felt her shaking. She was crying, not a sobbing, out-of-control crying, as one would expect, but soft, soul-deep tears that wet his neck, soaked into his skin and squeezed his heart.
Feeling raw and tender, he rubbed little circles on her back. Her skin was clammy. So was his. And he wasn’t sure which of them was trembling more. Seeing that message smeared on her door had made mincemeat of his insides. He imagined that was a fraction of what seeing it had done to her. The need to comfort her overwhelmed him, and without thinking of the thousand reasons he shouldn’t, he brushed her forehead with his lips. “Shh, it’ll be all right. Stop crying.”
“He knows about me, Parker. He knows I know about Misty.” Caron shuddered and buried her face deeper in the crook of his neck. “We have to stop him before he hurts her.” She reared back, away from his shoulder. “I—I don’t want her to die.” A fat tear tumbled to her cheek.
Parker’s emotions nosedived along with it, and he vowed, “She won’t, and neither will you. I swear it. Do you hear me? I swear it.” And because the need in him was so strong, because he, too, needed comfort and reassurance, he sealed his vow, covering her lips with his.
Her kiss was angry, desperate. He tasted her panic, and wondered if it was his own. She crushed her mouth to his, raked his lower lip with her teeth, and, when he opened his mouth she groaned deep in her throat and swept her tongue deep inside. Her fingers flattened on the bare skin between the lapels of his jacket, then brushed through the hair on his chest. His flesh quivered, and he grunted his pleasure. Their tongues met and tangled in a violent mating that made him weak, enraged his senses and sent his thoughts tumbling.
With a gasp, she eased back. “Parker?” She sniffed, sounding dazed, and brushed a fingertip across his lip.
He swore it brushed across his heart. Her lips were rosy, swollen from the kiss. Her face was flushed, and the irises of her eyes had deepened to the velvety purple of a midnight sky. Feeling too much, he abruptly set her to the floor. “Get some things together.”
“Why?” Uncertainty tinged her voice. She straightened her blouse. Water-splashed, the yellow silk clung sheer and outlined the lace on her bra.
He swallowed a knot from his throat and forced his gaze to her face, forced his voice to be less harsh. “I can’t leave you here, Caron. Now get some things together, okay?”
“Where am I going?”
Parker expected some flak, but he wasn’t giving in on this. They definitely had a case. And she definitely was in danger—from someone. “After we get this reported to the police—“
“No. They’ll kill her. They’ll know. No police. Well, besides Sandy.”
That, he believed. “You’re coming home with me.”
“You live here?”
Parker heard the surprise in Caron’s voice, and, looking through the Porsche’s windshield, he glanced up at the house. It wasn’t much different from the other homes lining Pontchartrain Drive—just three stories of white brick, mortar and verandas surrounded by a lawn no self-respecting weed would dare to grow in and a black wrought-iron gate. Mossy old oaks lined the sweeping drive, and strategically placed lawn lights shone amber on stately evergreens and fragrant magnolias. To him, it was home, just as it had been home to three generations of his mother’s family. But to Caron, he was sure, the house reeked of wealth.
He grimaced, sorry that he’d brought her here. She’d be stiff and formal with him now, intimidated, maybe even withdrawn. He’d lost it emotionally for a while back at her place, but he’d calmed down since—at least enough to know that he needed her comfortable, needed her guard down, to catch her cold and prove beyond all reasonable doubt that she was a con artist committing fraud.
Someone was after her, and he meant to find out who and why. But that didn’t exonerate her for what she’d done to Harlan. Parker had to keep that injustice firmly in mind.
He gripped the steering wheel and compromised, telling her a half-truth. “I stay here.” Dishonesty rubbed him the wrong way, but this time the end justified the means.
“Oh.”
No disappointment edged her voice, just acknowledgment. That surprised him, too. He drove through the gate and stopped in the center of the circular drive, near the gurgling fountain spurting streams of pink water. At least she was talking again. For most of the ride, she’d sat staring woodenly out of the window, nearly comatose.
Some truth niggled at the fringe of his conscience, as if he ought to be seeing something obvious, but wasn’t. Unable to put a finger on the source, he got out of the car, went around, then helped Caron out. Before plunging in, he should have thought this move through. But he hadn’t, and what was done was done. At least he wouldn’t have to explain this to his mother and Megan. They weren’t due back from Europe until after Christmas, so there was no chance they’d drop in on him.
And he wouldn’t have to worry about them confiding in Caron, blowing his cover and a year’s work.
Caron stepped out. She didn’t say anything, but she was scanning, taking it all in, the gardens, the house, the pool.
His fingers stiff on her arm, he grabbed her suitcase from the back seat, then led her in and showed her around.
From her expression, it was clear she recognized that valuable antiques stuffed the rooms, all the way to the attics, that Turkish rugs littered the hardwood floors, and that a Botticelli painting hung on the wall. But she kept her thoughts to herself, not uttering a sound...until they stepped into the garden.
The scent of irises hung heavy on the cool night air. Caron touched the petals of a white iris almost reverently.
“Ina likes irises,” she said softly. “I stomped hers.”
Parker stepped into a shadow. Caron seemed so fragile. “We’ll get her some more.”
She looked back at him, still fingering the petal. “Decker stomped them on purpose, but I didn’t know they were there. I jumped the fence...” She gave Parker a searching look that tied him into knots. “Do you think Ina will see the difference?”
Doubt, he realized. Shock, too. “Sure she will.”
Taking Caron’s arm, he led her inside and up the glossy oak stairs. At the bedroom next to his, he stopped and opened the door. “Here you are.”
She stepped inside and slowly turned in a circle. Parker’s
gaze went with her. White oak furniture. A high canopy bed draped in soft pink antique satin. A skirted dressing table and tiny pink floral wallpaper.
“It’s pretty.”
Her simple remark eased the tense knot from his chest. Seeing the house through her eyes made him feel guilty for having been so fortunate—and acutely aware of how unfortunate Caron had been. She’d been raised by her mother in a shabby four-room house in a neighborhood that spawned drug dealers and prostitutes. Thanks to her aunt Grace’s getting Caron in with Dr. Zilinger, Caron had become acquainted with Sanders. And money for the basics soon had become available through him—courtesy of the good taxpayers of the city of New Orleans. Consultant fees for Caron’s services.
Harlan had figured Sanders and Caron’s mother were having a fling, but Parker wasn’t sure about that. The woman was strapped financially and had been ever since Caron’s father had taken off for parts unknown. But as far as Parker had been able to tell, Sanders and Caron’s mother had never met. On what basis had Harlan pegged them as lovers?
The answer to that question had died with Harlan. But Parker felt sure that lack of money could induce a parent to coerce a child into pretending to “see” things she really didn’t see. Kids wanted to please their parents. Hadn’t Parker played tight end in the championship game with a broken wrist so that he wouldn’t disappoint his father?
That could be it. That could be why Caron pretended to be psychic. So that she wouldn’t disappoint her mother— her father having already deserted her. Or maybe she pretended for the money. Or maybe for attention? To get back at life for having been so hard on her?
It was possible, Parker decided. But not probable. Caron seemed appreciative of his things, but not overly impressed—except by the flowers in the garden. Frankly, pretense didn’t seem her style. But she was a con artist, he reminded himself. Her seeming lack of interest could be intentional.
He dragged a hand through his hair. Hell, what did her reasons matter, anyway? Harlan was dead. She was responsible. That was the bottom line.
“Parker?”
Standing by the window, she looked small and solemn. From the knees down, her white slacks were mud-spattered, and a bit of mustard competed with the water stains on her crumpled yellow blouse. Her hair hung in damp wheaten ropes, and her eyes...damn those eyes for looking so vulnerable. How could she look so lost and vulnerable?
“I want to thank you for...tonight.”
She meant it. He could see that she did. Now he felt guilty and like a heel. Wishing she was fighting mad, wishing she wasn’t looking at him like she’d lost her last friend, he shrugged. “What are partners for?”
“I’m scared.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “I’m not used to being scared.”
“I know.” The awareness that her words barely pricked the surface of her feelings had the urge to comfort her slamming into him. Parker stiffened against it. But once more she’d touched him. She’d reached deep inside him and wrenched out feelings he didn’t want to have for her. And he had to admit that, if only to himself. “Why don’t you get into bed? I’ll bring you a glass of warm milk to help you get some rest.”
Caron nodded, and he left the room.
By the time he heated the milk, called police headquarters to report the break-in to Sandy—getting his machine—and walked back upstairs, Parker was convinced. He was a walking lump of screwed-up contradictions on all matters relating to Caron Chalmers. He wanted her, and he shouldn’t. He doubted there was a case, yet knew there was a case. He hated her for deceiving others, yet he willingly deceived her. He knew she was a fraud, yet she didn’t look or act like a fraud. She looked and acted vulnerable. She was vulnerable. And, despite his resolve not to, he felt protective toward her. It was like he’d told her. He gave a damn. He cared. And he had no right.
Deciding he’d definitely lost his mind, he tapped on her door.
No answer. He tapped again. “Caron?”
Still no answer.
Parker eased the door open. She was sitting in the middle of the bed, her legs folded under her, a long flannel nightgown, so faded it belonged in a rag bag, covering every inch of her skin, from chin to toes. Her expression was wooden, so fixed that Parker feared that if she blinked an eyelash would crack off, and her skin was the color of the milk.
“Caron?” He stepped closer, but still she didn’t move. He set the milk on the nightstand and sank down onto the edge of the bed. “Caron,” he said again, touching her arm. “Don’t let this get to you. Not like this.”
Something in her seemed to snap. “It’s gotten to me, Parker.” She glared at him, fury sparking in her eyes. “It’s gotten to me way down deep.”
“I’ve reported the break-in. Tomorrow you’ll need to do the paperwork.” When she didn’t say anything, he let his hand slide up the length of her arm. The flannel was soft, and it felt good against his palm. “It’s okay to be scared.”
“I am scared.” The look in her eyes changed. Her irises deepened to a dark purple that bordered on black. “But I’m even more angry. I was violated. So was Misty. That’s wrong, Parker. No one should be violated.” Her voice grew harder. “Misty can’t fight whoever’s behind this. But I can, and I will.”
Relieved that she was rallying, Parker smiled and gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “When you get your spunk back, you do it with a vengeance, don’t you?”
“It surprised me.” He heard her swallow. “We all have a dark side that’s dishonest. I should know that in some people dark’s about all there is. It’s happened so many times.” Lines proving she’d received one too many disappointments etched her face, and she let out a self-mocking laugh. “I’m a slow learner.” Her gaze, steady and probing, locked with his. “No matter how often it happens, dishonesty always surprises me. Does it you?”
Did she know? A streak of uncertainty shot up his spine, left a bitter taste in his mouth. Had she connected him with Harlan? Instead of answering, he asked a question of his own. “Have you been deceived a lot?”
“Many times.” She sighed deeply, avoiding his eyes. “Once people realize you can see things, they’re always scheming of ways to use you—usually to get them money.” She reached past him for the milk and took a drink. “That’s why Aunt Grace took me to Dr. Zilinger’s.”
So Caron didn’t know, and it was her Aunt Grace who’d wanted the money, not her mother. Could Harlan have confused the women? Maybe it was Grace and Sanders who were lovers. Maybe...Caron’s hand was steadier now. Parker was glad to see that. “How old were you?”
“Seven.” Caron again sipped from the glass. “My father was a heavy gambler. All the family knew about my gift, of course, though my mother drummed it into my head to ignore the images. One night, my father handed me a racing form. I pointed out the winner.” A sad smile curved her lips. “That was the last time we saw him.”
She rubbed her calf, the same one she’d rubbed in the I and in the car. Parker frowned. “The horse won.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Why didn’t your father come back, then, for more winnings?”
She lifted her chin a fraction. “My mother forbade him to come near me again. He called a couple of times. Once, I even answered.” She looked over to the window. “But Mother took the phone and told him not to call again.”
Parker’s stomach pitched. He was torn. On the one hand, her father had the right to be a part of his daughter’s life. On the other, her mother couldn’t be faulted for not letting Caron’s father use his daughter. This explained a great deal. It was no wonder Caron was reluctant to trust him, or any man. “Your mother blamed you, didn’t she?”
“Yes, and no.” Caron slumped back against the pillows. “She didn’t openly say it was my fault Dad was gone, but I felt guilty.” She scraped her lower lip with her teeth. “If I hadn’t had the gift, she wouldn’t have sent him away.”
“And she never let you forget that, did she?”
Caron didn’t answer. Nor did she lo
ok at him.
She didn’t have to; he knew. Anger at her mother burned in his stomach. How many times had Caron paid? How often had barbed remarks, accusations and blame been thrown in her face?
She still felt guilty, he realized. Which was why she continued to send her mother half her salary.
“It wasn’t your fault, Caron. You didn’t take your father away from your mother.”
She cocked a brow at him. “Are you a shrink? You sound just like Dr. Zilinger.”
Picturing the tiny Austrian doctor, who had repeatedly refused to answer his questions about Caron, Parker denied it. “No, just an observer of human nature.” He plucked a loose thread from the bedspread. “But that doesn’t change the facts. It wasn’t your fault.”
“So I’m told. But my mother would disagree.” She tugged the crumpled covers up over her knees, making a tent. “Back then, the images would come so fast I couldn’t decipher them. My mother played ostrich—”
“Ostrich?”
“Buried her head in the sand. She nearly buried my sanity with her.” Caron squeezed a pillow to her chest. “Do you know how active a child’s mind is? What it’s like to see flashes of horrible things that make no sense to you?”
“No, I don’t.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbow on his knee, his chin on his hand. The lady was a class act. The message on her door had rattled her to the core, yet she held it together and trudged along, keeping up her performance. It was damn convincing, too. Or it would have been, had he not known better. “But I would think it would be confusing.”
“It was.”
“So you went to Dr. Zilinger.” The air conditioner kicked on, blowing a steady stream of cold air that ruffled the lacy curtains at the window and the tendrils of hair drying into soft curls and framing Caron’s face. His in-sides warmed. Beautiful.
“Aunt Grace took me. Catch the overhead light, will you?” She reached over and switched on the bedside lamp, filling the room with a warm pink glow. “She told my mother we were going to the movies, of course. But I’d talked to her, and Aunt Grace knew that without help to make sense of all I was seeing I was headed for major trouble.”
