One Texas Night

by Sylvie Kurtz

  "Most of it." And that last little bit made all the difference. The last little bit had a fear greater than she'd ever known thrumming through her, eating away her hard-earned peace, stripping away her energy faster than a snowman could melt under the Texas sun.

  Melinda strolled down the long paved drive to the farm-to-market road. Her house was half a mile from the warehouse they used as a combination distribution center, showroom, and office. Most days she preferred to walk. Today, she'd like to fly and leave Lieutenant Sloan far behind.

  "Can I give you a ride home?" Grady offered as they passed his squad car.

  "No, thank you. I like to walk." Close quarters with him sounded much too confining. She needed open spaces, not his cramped cage.

  Grady fell in step next to her. He kept a polite distance between them. At least a foot separated their bodies, but he might as well have glued himself to her side the way her awareness of him encroached on her senses. Heat suffused her, an uncomfortable warmth that had nothing to do with the day's torrid temperature, and everything to do with the persistent policeman walking beside her.

  "I'd like to go over the details of the incident," he said, his voice solid, stable, filled with that quiet authority she was learning to despise.

  Incident! Angela's death wasn't a mere incident. Melinda's gaze fixed on the ground ahead of her, a sudden irritation quickening her steps. The irritation hadn't come from the words, she decided, but from the impassive way he'd said them. The "incident" had turned her world upside down. But she couldn't tell him about the nightmares, and he'd never understand her silence.

  "It was a murder, not an incident," she said. "Someone with a life, a family, with hopes and dreams died. Angela Petersen is not a faceless, nameless corpse."

  "I agree." As they turned onto the farm-to-market road's shoulder, he gave her one of his quick, observant glances, making her shiver in a purely physical reaction. "I'm glad you'll cooperate. Let's start with the moment you decided to leave the house. Did you ta—"

  "I'd really rather not think about that night."

  "I'm afraid you don't have much choice, Miss Amery. We can do it here or down at the station, but either way, I will get a statement from you."

  Melinda spun to face him, arms crossing under her chest. The country road's traffic flowed at a regular interval, whipping her hair into her face and whirling the rayon of her dress around her legs with each car's backwash. "It was raining. I went out because I couldn't stand the noise. I went out to the front of my house, cut across Mrs. Strong's lawn and Angie Petersen's. Everything else is in a fog until I woke up in your jail."

  As she spoke, he nodded, and she could practically hear the clicks as he catalogued every word for future reference. "I need more."

  "I don't have more!" Her fists clenched by her side. "How can I get that through your thick skull?"

  She wanted to slap him across the face and jar his computer-like brain out of whack. She wanted to stamp her feet in frustration. She wanted to growl at him. But instead, she resumed her controlled walk toward her house. Seeing an opening in the traffic, she jogged across the road. She'd been raised as a lady; she would act like a lady—even if he irritated the stuffing out of her.

  "I'd like for you to agree to an Amytal injection," Grady said, rejoining her.

  Melinda spun, forcing him to check his gait mid-stride. "No!"

  "Come on, you didn't even think about it."

  "I don't have to. I won't do it." She swiveled away from him, heading blindly toward the oasis of her home, wrapping her arms around herself to keep from shivering in the sudden chill.

  "How about hypnosis?"

  "No!"

  "You're not being very cooperative."

  "And you're not listening. I don't remember anything. I don't want to remember anything. I live in the present, Lieutenant Sloan. I look forward to the future. I don't have time for trips into the past. No Amytal. No hypnosis. Can I make myself any clearer?" She didn't wait for his answer, but turned into the entrance to Laurel Court.

  "You're putting me in a very difficult position." Grady's breath fanned against her hair. She took a sidestep away from him.

  "And you're putting me in an awkward one. I truly would like to help you. But digging into my psyche is something I simply cannot allow."

  "Why not?"

  She let out a heavy sigh, not knowing how to answer without sounding as if her brain lacked a few vital parts. Sometimes it felt that way. As if she'd been robbed of part of her life. But the thought of exploring those black holes petrified her. What monsters would she unearth? What was so horrible her mind had chosen to hide the memory away from her? Her life was fine the way it was. She had her work, her garden. What more could she possibly want?

  Her gaze strayed to Grady's strong profile. Having no men in your life isn't healthy. Well, she didn't need a man. She liked being on her own. With no one to answer to.

  Grady reached up to lift a low-hanging branch from one of the live oaks lining the curves of Laurel Court. His fingers accidentally brushed against her shoulder, sending a small thrill all through her limbs. The aura of his strength enveloped her and a dull ache penetrated her chest.

  No one to hold her. No one to share with. No one to love her.

  Not that Grady Sloan was the right choice for her. He was all wrong. She needed.... She needed.... Well, whatever she needed, Grady Sloan didn't have it. He tormented her. He irritated her. He—

  The black sedan parked in front of Angie's house caught her attention, bringing instant relief. "Angie's parents are here. I'd like to offer my condolences."

  For now, she could escape the emotion-stirring self-assurance of Lieutenant Grady Sloan. But she wasn't fool enough to think the respite would last.

  * * *

  She was running again. Running from him. On a professional level her disquiet pleased Grady. Her agitated state could only mean he'd hit a nerve. Yet part of him, the part he'd learned to question, sensed more to her agitation than the case he needed to solve.

  He hadn't planned on stopping at The Essential Gardener, but as he'd passed the warehouse he now recognized as her work place, he'd turned in, drawn irresistibly, it seemed, toward the building. How he'd known she was there, he couldn't have said. But he'd known. A good cop's instincts, he'd rationalized, only to have the image of her dark eyes belie his explanation.

  Official business, he'd justified, then scrambled for a reason for his presence until frustration gave him an answer. He'd known she wouldn't agree to the Amytal or the hypnosis. Desiree had warned him she didn't want to remember. But he'd needed to prove to himself that cleaned up and wrapped in her upper-class mantle of stiff upper lip, she couldn't twist his gut as strongly as she had yesterday. Then he could go back to putting his full attention solving the case, and leave her haunting eyes behind.

  Of course, reality hadn't deemed to agree with his expectations. Miss Melinda Amery had forgotten to wear her plastic smile. She'd forgotten to wear her power suit.

  She'd forgotten to hide her fear from him.

  His reaction hadn't been much better.

  One look at Melinda had made his gut tighten up. One breath of her flower-garden scent had made him forget for half a second why he'd dropped in to visit. One accidental touch had stirred his hunger for her so sharply, he'd thought it was impossible for a man to want a woman that way.

  Concentrating on the details of her office hadn't helped. Her soft, flowing, beige dress with its tiny flowered print had blended beautifully with the tan walls of her functionary, if not stylish, cubicle. The sketches tacked up on the padded walls, the unexpected superficial disorder of her brushes and paints had startled him for a moment, then he'd seen the hidden pattern and almost smiled. And in the reflection of the metal filing cabinet, he'd seen the gibberish her flying fingers typed on her computer screen.

  He'd wanted to hold her then, to tell her he would never hurt her, to promise the nightmare would come to an end. He'd wanted to ki
ss the fear away and replace it with desire. Why, he couldn't have said. She was everything he'd learned to loathe. Even reminding himself she was Ely Amery's daughter hadn't eased his need to comfort her. He resented all those primal needs she stirred from him—the possessive protection, the ferocious anger, the lust, raw and fervent. Because he couldn't express any of those, he settled on controlled intimidation. Keeping her squirming would remind him of his duty; of the key she held locked in her head.

  She wasn't his to protect. She wasn't his to have. She was his to crack and extract the information he needed to solve Angela Petersen's murder and earn his promotion. Instead of strengthening his resolve, the notion left him chilled.

  Grady cast his uneasiness aside and forced his wandering mind back to the task at hand. He watched Melinda as she offered Harold and Clarice Hobart her condolences. He listened for the nuances beneath the words in conversation going on around him as if he could peel away the layers to get to the truth.

  Lies, he could feel them all around him, but he wasn't sure where they came from. Straightlaced Melinda? Or Angela Petersen's parents—the proper preacher and his meek wife?

  Angie was the youngest of twelve children. Her father's favorite. The Reverend Hobart had made no secret of his feelings toward Angie's angel's voice. He'd deemed such a gift as heaven sent, and as such, was to be put only to God's service, not to encourage man's lustful spirits. He'd never approved of the sad country songs Angie loved to sing. Had he feared her power in those moments? Had her heard how she'd put her soul into them? Had his convictions been strong enough to resort to stopping the "sin" any way he could?

  The reverend detached himself from the two women to face Grady. "Have you located the perpetrator of this heinous crime?" Harold's stern features and set face shoed Grady a man struggling to keep a brave front. Only the red, puffy eyes betrayed his grief.

  "Not at this time," Grady said. "We won't give up until we find who killed your daughter."

  "Have you spoken with that sinful ex-husband of hers?"

  "We're still trying to locate him."

  Harold's eyes darkened with anger. His jaw tensed. His hands encased in thin leather gloves curled into fists by his sides. Gloves? On such a hot day, they seemed out of place. But then the reverend also wore a dark jacket and a tightly knotted tie. Maybe they'd stopped on their way to or back from the funeral parlor's.

  "When is Angela's service?" Grady asked.

  "Tomorrow at two. We've just come from finalizing the arrangements. And to pick out a dress for her … final journey." As the reverend confirmed Grady's hunch, sadness once more enveloped the gray-haired man. "What can you tell me about the case?"

  Grady felt sorry for Harold. He knew how devastating the loss of family could be. After losing his parents, he'd almost lost his sisters, too. And though he imagined the death of a child could reach deeper layers of pain, he could understand a father's need to see his child's murderer punished.

  "We don't have much to go on at this point," Grady said, lowering his voice to avoid adding more anguish to Mrs. Hobart's grief.

  Harold Hobart often served as chaplain-on-call in cases where spiritual guidance and comfort were needed. He spent a considerable amount of time at the station reporting on his feelings and observations at crime scenes, often garnering information from grieving relatives or scared victims that helped solve cases.

  "The profuse blood spattering is consistent with a knife attack," Grady continued, knowing Harold understood the jargon of the trade and wanted its cold reassurance. "All indicators make it apparent the entire attack episode took place while the victim was in the living room. We believe she must have known her attacker. There were no signs of forced entry."

  "Have you recovered the murder weapon yet?" As if the mere thought of the knife brought immense pain, Harold's jaw flinched.

  "We're still looking for it. We're having some DNA tests done on blood samples we've found at the scene. We're hoping they won't all be Angie's and help point us toward the perpetrator."

  "Good. When will those be in?"

  "I'm afraid they won't be back for a while. We'll need you and Mrs. Hobart to go by the station for fingerprinting, so we can eliminate your prints from the ones found at the scene."

  "We'll be glad to oblige. You'll let me know if you find anything new."

  "I'll do that."

  Harold extended his hand to shake Grady's. "I appreciate it, Lieutenant Sloan."

  "Please accept my deepest sympathies. I'll do my best to bring the murderer to justice."

  "Thank you." Harold choked on his words and turned to his wife.

  Away from his conversation with the reverend, Clarice Hobart had dabbed at her eyes with a sodden tissue, but did not speak a sound, except a few squeaks of utter despair. Melinda had tried to console the woman who appeared much older than her years, but Grady doubted she'd gotten through the heavy anguish. The gentleness of Melinda's words, her easy compassion touched Grady. He wouldn't have expected such tender emotions from any of Ely Amery's progeny. He made a mental note to research Melinda's mother's background.

  As the Hobarts' car drove away, Grady rejoined Melinda and caught her wiping tears from her cheeks. Before he could stop himself, he placed an arm around her shoulders, felt the fragile bones against his palm, and drew her to him. For a moment she leaned into him and her shoulders shook beneath his fingers. But before he could analyze how good her body felt pressed against his, she inched away, and walked out of his arm toward her home.

  Mysterious Melinda of the dark eyes filled with fear, of the romantic heart reserved for her paintings—why did she hide in the refuge of her home built for one? What had the world done to her to create such an island? And why was he letting the soul-deep sadness swirling in her eyes get to him?

  Could she truly be as innocent as she looked? Hadn't Jamie's big green eyes looked that innocent? But Jamie's hadn't had the underlying turmoil of fear and doubt.

  The pain of the lesson Jamie had taught him still stung. His moment of weakness had forced him into the position of having to prove himself to the city council even when his record spoke for itself.

  One mistake!

  He didn't plan on making the same one a second time. His future, all he'd worked for, wasn't worth losing over a woman's sad eyes.

  And certainly not Ely Amery's daughter.

  As much as grace wasn't part of Desiree's genetic make-up, patience wasn't part of his. And yet, just as work turned Desiree into a swan, Grady understood only careful listening, watching, and understanding would let him uncover the clues he needed to solve this crime.

  Melinda didn't want to remember, but she'd have to.

  And if he was going to get to the source of her fears, he'd have to chip at her carefully built wall. Do it methodically. Do it without emotion.

  Getting past her fortress would take patience. A lot of it. And time. More than he wanted to give.

  Looking at the invisible burden weighing her shoulders, the stiff lines of her back, the sensuous sway of her slender hips, Grady knew the task wouldn't be easy.

  For either of them.

  Chapter 5

  "Can I come in?" Grady asked.

  Melinda paused with her key inserted halfway into her front door's lock. "Can I stop you?"

  "I'd be back with a warrant." As if there were no question she'd acquiesce, he took his sunglasses off and tucked them in his shirt pocket.

  She shrugged and feigned indifference. "Suit yourself."

  He stepped into her house and overwhelmed the small space. "You can call your lawyer, if you'd like."

  "There's no reason. I've already told you—there's nothing to remember." She turned away from his imposing frame, and headed toward the spacious view from the living room. In no time, she unlatched all the windows, letting the slow, warm breeze ease the stuffiness of the hot interior.

  "I have to change." Without waiting for a comment, Melinda edged toward her bedroom at the back of the h
ouse, and closed the door behind her.

  Expelling her pent-up breath and letting her purse slip from her shoulder to the floor with a thump, she sagged against the door. She hoped he'd leave. She didn't know how much longer she could keep up the appearance of being together. Already she could feel the widening cracks in her shaky front.

  Hadn't she accepted his strength when she'd been unable to comfort Mrs. Hobart? She'd wanted to stay there, to turn into his arms, to feel his steady heartbeat against her hand. For a moment she'd forgotten he was here on business, that he didn't like her—not as a woman—that he wanted her memory.

  Then she'd remembered.

  She'd sidled as easily as she could from the solace of his arm, and felt both like a fool and strangely bereft. Using all her willpower, she'd forced herself to step toward her house, hoping all the while he wouldn't follow.

  Melinda twisted her arms back, reached for the zipper of her dress and pulled it down. The soft rayon fell in a puddle at her feet. She grabbed a loose sleeveless top from her dresser and headed for the master bathroom. The stress of having Grady Sloan around, calculating, cataloguing, watching her every movement had increased her headache to the point where she was sure the pounding could easily register a four on the Richter scale. While she filled a glass of water with one hand, the other grabbed the bottle of aspirin from the medicine cabinet. She shook out two tablets and swallowed them with the water.

  Getting her father to help her out of this mess would be easy. One word, and he would see to it that Grady Sloan would keep his distance. Such a gesture would please her father, but it wouldn't do anything for her sagging self-esteem. Once again she would have failed, and Daddy would have had to come to her rescue.

  The last time she'd stood up for herself, she'd found the relative peace of The Essential Gardener. This time, maybe she'd find salvation.

  She rubbed her temples with her palms. On the other hand, Grady Sloan's presence swept her in directions she didn't want to go.