The Marshal

by Adrienne Giordano

  Except, as much as the roughness made her wince, there was something rather delicious about seeing Brent Thompson in his tight football pants, tearing his way through a defensive line to their quarterback. Simple fact: this man possessed an uncontainable hotness. The scarf around her neck—a pretty yellow one her mom had given her—became too much and she tugged on it, letting air hit her neck. Brent shifted his grip on the steering wheel and she studied his long fingers. Talented fingers. Probably in more ways than one.

  Oh, boy. She loosened the scarf a little more. This line of thinking wouldn’t serve either one of them. Not after that moment by the fire pit last night when she seriously wanted to jump him. She faced front again and dug in her briefcase for a file.

  “Terrence Jeffries. Have you ever questioned him?”

  “Me personally? No. I’ve given the sheriff questions, though, and he’s spoken to him many times. He’s good at talking his way around an interview, which is amazing considering he’s been stoned for thirty years.”

  “Still, huh?”

  Brent shrugged. “As far as I know.”

  “Okay. I’m going in there playing the new-girl card. I’ll tell him I’m new on the case and just wanted to hear from him where he was that night. Maybe he’ll slip up.”

  “I’ll wait outside. My presence won’t help you.”

  “He doesn’t like you?”

  “He knows he’s a suspect in my mother’s murder. That alone makes him not like me.”

  She held up the file and flicked it. “Good point.”

  “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

  “I know you will.”

  Seventy-five long miles later, Brent parked in front of a faded white, broken-down cottage. A Jeep with rusted wheels sat in the tiny driveway. Jenna took that as a good sign.

  “Nice place.”

  “He invests his money in drugs.”

  Leaving the crutches in the car, Jenna limped to the front door with Brent on her heels. He stopped at the bottom of the steps leading to the stone porch. “I don’t understand why you won’t use crutches.”

  “I am using them. Just not right now.”

  He shook his head. “Whatever. I’ll be right here.”

  “I’ll holler if I need you.”

  “Last time I saw this guy he weighed about ninety pounds. Even with a bum ankle, you could take him.”

  She knocked on the door and faced front so Mr. Jeffries would get a face full of Jenna and not Brent standing at the base of the stairs. She turned back to him. “Maybe you should scoot to the side so he doesn’t see you. At least until I get in there.”

  “Nope. He needs to know you’re not alone.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “And I’ll be right here.”

  The front door swung open and a tall, thin man with gray—literally—skin stood there. What was left of his hair stuck up on one side, and a half-smoked cigarette hung from his mouth. The notes in the evidence file said he’d been twenty-two when the murder occurred. Jeffries looked a whole lot older than forty-five, but a life of drugs did that to a body. Tore it down, weakened and aged it.

  Time to put the Miss Illinois Runner-Up smile to work. “Hello. I’m Jenna Hayward.”

  He gave her the standard once-over, checking her out from head to toe. After Brent’s comment the other day about not selling herself short with revealing clothing, she’d opted to test his theory and went with jeans, a T-shirt and a blazer. Even so, the look Jeffries gave her spoke volumes about where his mind had gone. Nothing unusual there. At least until he spotted Brent at the base of the stairs.

  “Oh, come on, man,” he said. “I keep telling you I didn’t hurt your mother.”

  Needing to refocus Jeffries, Jenna took two steps sideways and blocked his view of Brent. “I’m an investigator helping out with the investigation into Mrs. Thompson’s death. Your name is in the file.”

  “Yeah, because they think I did it. And I keep saying I didn’t.”

  “Which is why I’d like to ask you a few questions. To see if we can rule you out.”

  He craned his neck to see Brent.

  “He’ll wait right there,” Jenna said. “I’m the only one talking to you.”

  “Are you a cop? My lawyer says I shouldn’t talk to cops without him.”

  A smart man, your lawyer. “I’m not a cop. As I said, I’m a private investigator. I work for a law firm, and we’re helping with the investigation.” That’s all she’d give him. If he chose to talk to her and she discovered something to turn over to police, it was still his choice to speak with her. Even if it was hearsay, information communicated by someone else and not verifiable, a smart prosecutor could find a way to make it admissible. Jenna waited while Jeffries glanced at Brent and then back to her.

  “I need to call my lawyer.” He stepped back. “You can come in if you want. Or stand there. I don’t care.”

  He spun away from her, leaving the front door open. Oh, she was going in. If nothing else, simply to eavesdrop on the conversation with his lawyer. “If you don’t mind, I’ll step in. It’s rather windy out here.”

  “Leave the door open,” Brent said from the bottom of the steps.

  She glanced back at him, gave him a discreet thumbs-up, but he climbed the two steps and leaned against the porch pole, keeping her in sight.

  Inside, the living room was a small, perfectly square room with a twenty-inch television sitting on a wooden folding tray. Across from it were a patched plaid sofa that had to be someone’s great-grandma’s and an end table with a cheap ceramic lamp. Above the sofa two shelves held what looked like sports memorabilia. Interesting. Jenna peeked down the hall where Jeffries’s voice drifted from another room. Bedroom maybe.

  Knowing Brent watched, she jerked her head toward the wall and then wandered to where the collection of sports items—broken bats, a deflated football, a yellow flag, a signed ball—gathered dust. Next to the broken bat was a hunk of cement. She snapped photos of the items. Once she was through, she glanced down the hall. No sign of Jeffries. Good, because she wanted a closer look at the cement. Using her scarf as a glove, she pulled it down and studied it for signs of dried blood. Twenty-three years later, who knew if it might still be possible, but she’d learned to note everything. She set it on the floor and took pictures from different angles. Couldn’t hurt to compare the shape to the crime scene photos of the wounds on Brent’s mother.

  A long shot at best. This would be one dumb killer to leave a murder weapon out in the open. She placed the items back in their original positions on the shelf. The dust was disturbed, but hopefully she’d be gone by the time he noticed. If not, she’d talk her way out of it. A little eye-batting and smiling could take a girl anywhere.

  Jeffries shuffled back to her, his head down. “My lawyer’s service can’t find him. They found his partner, and he said I shouldn’t talk to anyone without a lawyer. We should set up an appointment.”

  Of course they should. Jenna dug into her purse. “That would be fine. As I said, I’m just verifying a few things. Here’s my card. Have your lawyer contact me.”

  He took the card. “We’ll call you.”

  Liar. But if they didn’t, she’d come back. And she’d keep coming back—and calling—until he agreed to talk to her. “Great.”

  She held her hand out and he shook it. “She was a nice lady. I didn’t do it.”

  “Then you won’t mind answering my questions. With your lawyer.”

  * * *

  STANDING OUTSIDE TERRENCE JEFFRIES’S house was not on Brent’s list of favorite things to do. Ideally, assuming the guy was the murderer who’d ripped Brent’s life away, Brent wanted to crush his skull. Make the guy feel what Brent’s mother had while blood had poured out of her. When she’d known her children would find her body.

  But if the man was innocent, that skull bashing would be a problem. Thus, he stayed away from Terrence Jeffries. Too many conflicting emotions. Too much anger.

 
; Too much pain.

  Hearing Jenna say goodbye to Jeffries, Brent boosted off the porch pole and walked down the steps to wait for her.

  She exited the house, pulled the door closed and hobbled toward him, her lush body moving as fast as her bum ankle would let her.

  “Let’s go. I’ve got photos to print and compare to the crime-scene ones.”

  Years of dead ends had taught him to keep his hopes in check, but the excitement in her eyes, the energy coming off her, she had something. “What photos? You found something?”

  She grabbed his forearm and dragged him to the car. “I’ll show you in the car. He’s got all sorts of sports memorabilia. Bats, balls, that kind of stuff. But he also has a hunk of cement. I don’t know what it is, but I snapped pictures.”

  Ah, damn. Here she was all pumped about her discovery and he’d have to wreck it. They reached his SUV and Brent opened the door, letting her slide in before propping his arm on the door frame.

  “What?” Jenna said.

  “The cement. It’s a piece of an old baseball stadium that was torn down. In 2008.”

  Jenna’s body deflated. Boom. That fast, her excitement faded. He knew the feeling.

  She smacked her palms against her thighs. “Well, shoot.”

  “It came up when the sheriff questioned him a few years ago. There’s nothing there.”

  Jenna grasped the front of his shirt and gently tugged. “I’m so sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I thought I had something. Now I’ve dragged you all the way out here to tell you what you already knew.”

  He leaned in closer and got to eye level with her. “Hey, you’re doing exactly what I need you to. Fresh eyes, Jenna. I don’t care if we go through every piece of evidence again. You might see something differently, and that’s what we need. Don’t get down on yourself. We knew going in this wouldn’t be easy and you’ve just started. So lighten up.” He grinned. “Don’t be a baby.”

  “Hey!” She twisted his shirt in her fist and he set his hand over hers.

  “I was teasing.”

  Untangling their hands, she played with his fingers, gently stroking each one—hello, erection—until she got to his pinky. What the hell had he been thinking putting his hands on her? Huge mistake. Sex-starved as his body was, he should have known better than to reach into that cookie jar. Considering he was a man who liked cookies.

  He backed away, straightened up. “This is killing me. We should go.”

  “Brent...” she began, her voice low and husky.

  He’d bet she sounded that way in the morning, when she woke up from a long night in the sack. Immediately, his mind drifted to Jenna—naked—in a bed, legs tangled in sheets. Dammit. Even her voice made him crazy. That may have been his desperate body talking, though.

  “No, Jenna. We...we need to go. Before I do something stupid. Something we both agreed wouldn’t happen. Let’s just...” Find a room. “...go. We need to go.”

  Not bothering to look back at Jeffries’s house, because, yeah, that would only aggravate him more, Brent made his way around the front of the SUV.

  His bum luck that his surefire release of aggravation was sex. Lots of it. And right now, on his day off when he had plenty of time for that particular endeavor, his boiling attraction to Jenna, combined with not being able to crush Terrence Jeffries’s skull, might turn him into a maniac.

  He hopped into the driver’s side and kept his eyes straight ahead. Don’t look at the hot brunette. Three blocks later, they still sat in silence, but he was in no rush for conversation. Speaking to her, like touching her, would be trouble.

  “Are you mad?” she asked.

  And didn’t that blow the whole not-speaking-to-her plan? “No. I’m...” He slapped his hand over his mouth and dragged it down.

  Driving right now would be a mistake. He parked in front of a clump of trees, sat back and organized his thoughts. All the thinking about not having sex only made him want to have sex. Time to have this conversation. But then he’d have to look at her. Always trouble. Suck it up.

  He released the seat belt, shifted sideways and, yep, that thumping in his chest started right up. “I don’t know what I am. I want things. None of which I can have right now and it’s...frustrating.”

  “I know, but we’ll get there.”

  What? Did she have any idea he was talking about them spending excessive time in a bed? If so, she was pretty damned open about it.

  No.

  She had to be talking about the case. The no-flirting rule was her brilliant idea and she’d better not be taunting him with the idea they’d eventually get busy. “Uh, I think we’re talking about different things.”

  “No, it’ll be fine.” She tapped her phone. “Even if these photos aren’t of the murder weapons, I can compare them to the pictures of your...the pictures from that night. I’ll see if there are any similarities. So this trip wasn’t a waste. Don’t be frustrated.”

  Ha. Kicker, that. She thought he was frustrated about the memorabilia. That came and went four years ago when the issue first came up.

  Unable to resist, he ran his index finger along her cheek. “Honey, I’m not talking about the pictures.”

  Brent waited for his meaning to penetrate. One, two...

  “Ooohhh,” she said.

  And, God, her lips were perfect. Just puffy enough that he’d like to stroke his thumb across the bottom one and feel all that softness. Kissable lips. Exceptionally kissable lips.

  And it hurt.

  Looking at her had become an exercise in torture. He wanted her. Plain and simple. Whether that want would go away after a few hours of fun—as usually happened—he couldn’t be sure. This wanting, the one keeping him up at night, felt different. Rooted. Like it wouldn’t die with fast, primal sex.

  What he didn’t need was a woman getting inside his head and staying there. His adult existence had consisted of finding his mother’s killer. It was, in fact, all he knew—emotionally speaking. He had no room for anything else. No room. Zero.

  When he found the killer, maybe then. Now? No way. He’d blow off his own head trying to juggle a relationship with his mom’s case.

  But Jenna was looking at him with those amazing blue eyes and that punch to the chest ripped his air away. Hell with it.

  He kissed her.

  Not gently, either. When his lips hit hers, months of need broke loose. She didn’t protest. Unless her tongue in his mouth was meant to be a protest. He didn’t think so. He leaned in, nipped at the bottom lip he’d just fantasized about and she made a sound, a half groan, half moan low in her throat that set every nerve in his body blazing.

  She clamped her hand around the back of his neck and held him there, angled her body closer and—uh—he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He knew what he wanted to do, but his brain had stalled. Overload.

  So he backed up. Seriously?

  “Hang on,” he said.

  But she was focused on his lips and inched closer, moving in for round two. Had she heard him?

  “Hey!” he hollered. “Unless you want me to find the nearest hotel, we’ve got to stop. I can’t take it. I’m trying to do the right thing here. The thing you said you wanted. Or, in this case, didn’t want, but I’m still a guy who likes sex. A lot. So I’m not sticking with this doing-the-right-thing long. Decide what you want, Jenna, and I’ll give it to you.”

  Finally, her gaze drifted from his lips, up to his eyes. She blinked. Three times.

  “I want us to be clear on what we’re doing,” he continued. “Are we clear?”

  With the heat incinerating the car, it took her a second, but she nodded. “We shouldn’t tempt ourselves, right?”

  “If that’s what you want, yes.”

  “I want both. That’s the problem. I want everything.”

  Ha. Didn’t everyone. “Yeah, well, sometimes life sucks.”

  “That it does.” She rested her head back against the seat and stared out the w
indshield. “I guess we should head home, then.”

  “I guess we should.”

  “Brent?”

  “What?”

  “I think I’m crazy about you.”

  He jammed the stupid seat belt into the buckle and looked over at her. This was a message he needed to deliver while staring her right in the face. No avoidance.

  “That’s good, because I think I’m crazy about you, too. But I don’t have room for a relationship. I don’t want to hurt you. You have to know that. Every relationship I’ve had has ended badly. I’m too wrapped up in finding my mother’s killer. Women always start out admiring that, but when I break dates or bail on functions to chase a lead, they get pissed. I don’t blame them, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I owe my mother this. I owe my family this. It comes first, always.”

  “And I’m high-maintenance.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I know I need a lot of stroking—it’s part of me—and you don’t have time for stroking.”

  “I did not say that.”

  And here we go. They weren’t even in a relationship and they were arguing about the very thing he wanted to avoid.

  Jenna held up her hands. “I’m stating the obvious. We don’t have to debate it.” She reached over and squeezed his arm. “Please. I’m not mad. Honesty shouldn’t be a bad thing. The truth we can work with.”

  Extraordinary woman. He sat back in his seat, blew out a breath. She’d given him the out. Let him off the hook. So why didn’t it feel good? The sense of relief he should feel didn’t materialize. All he felt was bottled up. Like a pop needing to explode.

  “I care about you,” he said. “And whatever this is going on with us, I like it. It drives me insane, but I like it. We should wait until you’re off my mom’s case, though. Not complicate things.”

  “Of course. By then we’ll probably be sick of each other.”

  Doubtful. Another thing that scared the hell out of him.

  Chapter Seven

  Jenna pushed through her apartment door and headed straight for her computer. Behind her, Brent trailed along so she waved him to a chair—any chair—while she downloaded the photos.