by Sylvie Kurtz
He stopped by every day after work. Had done so for the past eight days. Their shared iced tea had become a ritual she anticipated. She thought she might even have to invest in a second chair if his visits continued.
Disasters at work took on less meaning. When the printer called to tell her the disc she'd sent him spewed out gobbledygook, she'd taken it in stride. When she'd had to send the proofs back to the printer to have him work on the color separation, it hadn't fazed her. Even when the chromos had shown up with flipped photographs, it hadn't daunted her. All she could think of was Grady and their afternoon tea in her garden.
Not even her father's daily phone calls and chidings could dispel her buoyant mood. She couldn't remember when she'd ever felt this alive.
Today, she'd found herself brushing her hair, touching up her lipstick, putting a sprig of mint in the cooling tea. Now, she was getting down her best glasses, adding a plate of cookies to the ivy-painted tray, and listening for the purr of his car.
He didn't touch her.
He didn't talk about Angie, or the murder, or her father.
He was Grady. She was Melinda.
They talked of inconsequential things like the weather, her garden, his horses. They talked about everything and nothing, she perched on the wall, he swinging in the hammock chair. He promised her a horseback ride. She promised him a Christmas cactus in bloom.
She wanted much more, and thought he might, too.
The first time he'd stopped, he'd had a search warrant in hand and had kept her company while two officers sifted through the contents of her garden. She should have been angry. She should have been hurt. But she wasn't. He'd simply been doing his job. Now he knew with certainty she had nothing to hide. And she came closer to believing she was as innocent as she believed.
The second time he'd shown up, it had been as if he hadn't planned the visit. His "Can I come in?" hadn't been a command. As a matter of fact, his hesitation had pleased her more than she cared to admit.
The promise she saw daily in his eyes riddled her sleep and meshed with her nightmares. His unspoken promise of passion had her aching so desperately, the tension nearly drove her mad. The way he looked at her so hungry made her feel special, fully feminine for the first time in years.
She wanted him to touch her. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to love her with a fierceness that frightened her as much as it excited her. Never had she wanted a man the way she wanted Grady.
But part of her feared for her heart. When he had what he wanted, would he leave? She remembered his punishing kiss when he'd spoken of the woman who'd betrayed him. Would he do to her what the woman had done to him? She couldn't bear the loss. And so she couldn't bring herself to cross the line.
In her driveway, his engine's soft purring rumbled on for a minute before it died. She licked her lips in anticipation, smoothed the front of her dress, and forced herself to take calm, even steps to the door. At his knock, her heart gave a small lurch. With a pat to her hair, she answered. Both her hands remained twined on the knob to keep herself from reaching for him, from touching the five o'clock shadow darkening his jaw.
"Hi!" Genuine pleasure shone in his eyes.
She smiled and her delight at seeing him fluttered all the way down to her stomach.
"Hi!" Did she sound as breathless as she felt?
"Can I come in?" He removed his sunglasses and twirled the stem between his fingers.
"I wish you would." She felt schoolgirl giddy, first-date clumsy, and cat sinewy all at the same time.
As she brought the tea tray out into the garden, she caught him looking at her with naked admiration, and she had the strange feeling he'd kept his uniform on to remind himself he was the law and not a man. As if he needing the reminder of authority, his hand stroked the gun holstered on his hips.
She almost smiled at his unconscious gesture. The idea she could make him nervous had an intoxicating impact. She'd never had much of any effect on a man before. A new feeling of power surged through her.
"If I didn't know better, I'd think I scared you," Melinda said, embarrassed by the coy laughter that followed.
She set the tray down on the small wrought-iron table she'd dragged out several days ago for that purpose, and that piercing gaze of his trailed her every movement. She should be used to his intensity by now, but she wasn't.
"Oh, but you do." His relentless gaze forced her to look up from her task of pouring tea into glasses. The blue of his eyes had never looked so bright, so nakedly open. "I want you. You have to know that."
So intense, his gaze. So sharp, the answering pang deep in her. Her hand involuntarily braced her abdomen. His admission shocked her, but didn't surprise her. She'd seen the truth of it in his face for over a week now. "I do."
As she handed him a glass, their fingers touched, hesitated, and separated once more. She sat primly on the wall's edge. He settled himself in the hammock chair.
So civilized.
Melinda wanted to scream. But she was a lady. Why did she have to remind herself so often these days?
She held her glass tightly with both hands to keep them still. She wanted to use her fingers to loosen his collar, to run her palms over the muscles of his chest, to feel if the hard lines molded by his uniform were from more than starch. But she didn't. She hitched in a shaky breath. It was amazing the wanton feelings just looking at him aroused in her.
She looked away, suddenly embarrassed by the train of her thoughts. "I—"
"I'm afraid I'll forget who I am and give into my basic instincts," Grady interrupted. As he settled the glass on a flagstone by his chair, the ice cubes clinked loudly. He raised one foot to rest on his knee and laced his fingers behind his head. "Do you know what would happen if I did?"
Oh, yes. I'd melt like strawberry jelly on a hot shortcake. She shuddered with anticipation. Her throat went dry. She had to clear her throat before she could speak. "Tell me."
"It would ruin my career."
"Oh." Condensation from the glass in her hands pooled between the hammock of her thumb and index finger. "And if I wasn't a... suspect—a witness. What then?"
Birds twittered in the background as if nothing important was happening in her little garden, as if today were just an ordinary day. The breeze blew the wind chimes into a pleasing tinkle belittling the small drama taking place between them.
"Then that would be a whole different story."
Her hands wobbled in her lap, spilling tea on her cream-colored dress. She sprang up like a wound spring and batted at the wet liquid spreading into a stain.
"I-I'll be right back." She practically ran into the house.
He made her nervous. He made her edgy. He made her want to relieve the primitive tension strung to near breaking between them. And that voice of his, sand on silk, raw with desire, was driving her crazy.
With a cloth she wet at the kitchen sink, Melinda worked at removing the stain on her dress. Frustrated she hurled the cloth into the sink.
They were crossing a line, admitting to cards they held tightly, or perhaps just calling a bluff.
Maybe nothing would come of starting a relationship with Grady. Maybe once the initial fire of sexual need was flushed, they'd find nothing at all existed between them.
She could tell herself again and again that she couldn't be falling in love with someone she barely knew, someone who thought of her as an obstacle to an investigation. She could stay up night after night, day after day, counting the reasons why their relationship couldn't work. But like death, love knew no logic.
And as surely as autumn followed summer, she was falling in love with the dangerous lieutenant.
If there was any way they would get an opportunity to explore this disturbing attraction hovering so potently around them, she'd have to prove her innocence to him. Not with drug-induced trips into the past, but with the cold, hard facts Grady's analytical personality craved.
And, as much as she feared the prospect, she'd have to
face the monster hiding somewhere in her head. For that, she'd need help. This past week of solitary digging had taught her she could only go so far on her own. Taking the last step to open the monster's cage felt like jumping blindly over a cliff. She needed to know that someone would catch her, should she take the plunge. Though his presence had a definitely disquieting effect on her, she trusted Grady.
But if they were going to pry open her memory, they were going to do it her way.
Before she lost her nerve, she returned to the garden.
"I'm ready." She said the words fast and sharp. They wend down like a bitter pill swallowed without water.
Dead silence reigned in the oasis refuge she'd created for herself and didn't often share. Even the birds and the breeze stilled for a moment as if they, too, could feel the situation spinning in a whole new direction. She waited, twisting her fingers, one around the other.
"What are you ready for, Melinda?"
"To let you into my world." She didn't give him a chance to respond, but sped on. "Do you own a tuxedo?"
"Why?"
"From what I could gather from the library, investigations have steps. One of the first is background. I'm taking you to my father's award banquet tomorrow night. I'll pick you up at six-thirty. I promised Daddy I'd be there early."
Another longer silence stretched between them. The length and weight of it made her jittery all over again, shaking her resolve.
"You don't know where I live."
She'd caught him off guard. Choking back a smile, she realized that for once, she held the upper hand. "I'll find you."
She'd taken the next step.
She'd agreed to face her fears.
Now there was no turning back.
Chapter 8
After a hard running game of soccer in their Friday-night league, Grady and Oscar went to Mamie's for their post-game meal. By nine, the dinner crowd was long gone and they had the restaurant to themselves.
Except for Melinda.
Grady spotted her right away. She leaned against the counter, chatting with Maggie, the cook.
Take-out bag in hand, she almost ran into them at the door. She smiled at Grady, and the foreign surge of softness that clunked in his chest like an out-of-whack engine baffled him. He made quick introductions.
"Tough game?" she asked, looking at his grass-stained shorts and socks.
"We've played better."
"Speak for yourself," Oscar said. "We could've won, if you'd made the last shot."
The game had ended up tied. As Oscar had said, they could have won, but Grady missed an easy shot on goal, kicking the ball too hard, and sending it flying over the net instead.
The type of shot he'd never have missed if he hadn't been concentrating so hard to keep thoughts of Melinda out of his head.
But he couldn't get her out of his mind. He thought about her day and night. And when he wasn't thinking about her, he was dreaming about her—erotic dreams that woke him with a painful yearning. He'd tried to label the deep itch, but no word came close to describing the hunger devouring him inside. And he didn’t like the lack of control such a fact implied. Looking at her, he couldn't find and answer, either.
"Dining alone?" His chin pointed at her bag.
As if his gaze burned her, Melinda blushed. "No, I have a date."
The thought of someone else kissing Melinda goodnight brought an unexpected surge of something that had him seeing an unpleasant shade of green. He shook his head. It's none of your business. "A date?"
"With a stack of pricing reports and a calculator." As if aware of the straying track of his thoughts, she smiled. "I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow."
As Melinda walked out the door, Grady caught Oscar's low whistle and cut off Oscar's view of Melinda's softly swaying skirt by urging him in.
"What did I do, man?" Oscar asked with a chuckle.
"Nothing." He wasn't about to explain anything about Melinda to anyone, let alone someone as observant as Oscar. They'd known each other too long. He headed toward the booth at the back of the restaurant.
Grady's afternoon-tea sessions with Melinda had started because Grady couldn't keep himself from driving by her house. He hadn't planned to stop. But he had. He'd simply wanted to check on her, make sure she was all right, give her a chance to talk. As he would have done for anyone else, he'd rationalized. But would he have continued the afternoon ritual if it had been old Lena Strong he'd found in front of Angela Petersen's home with holes in her memory?
The mystery in the dark maze of Melinda's eyes had drawn him in. He couldn't help himself; he needed his daily dose of her. Like an addict needed a fix. The way his mother had needed wine. Melinda would perturb him until he solved the enigma wrapping itself in layers around her.
But this driving need affected everything he did, even his soccer game. And if he kept going down this track, he might as well just call the State boys to take over the investigation, and hand the promotion over to Wayne himself.
Each visit left him more frustrated than the last. Questions hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he'd promised her space. He wanted to touch her, but he'd promised her space. He remembered the inebriating taste of her, the exhilarating touch of her, but he didn't make any moves toward her. He'd promised her space.
He was still in control—detective to hostile witness.
Funny how he didn't believe a word of the baloney he was feeding himself. There was nothing detective-like about what he'd like to do with her, nothing hostile about the way Melinda looked at him, her dark eyes filled with desire.
But he couldn't accept her silent invitation. He was the law. She was, at the very least, a material witness. No matter how much he'd like to trust the innocence in her deep, dark, eyes, when all the evidence was analyzed, they were left with just her as their best suspect.
"I can't believe you missed that shot," Oscar said, as he slid into the booth. The red vinyl seat squeaked from the sweat on his thighs, and Oscar's gym bag caught the corner of the red and white checked plastic tablecloth, dragging half of it off before Grady could straighten it. "I set it up perfect for you. I told you, man. You gotta use your left foot."
Grady set his own gym bag on the floor and sat opposite Oscar. "I've got a lot on my mind."
Oscar's mustache rose into a wide grin, showing off his white teeth. "Pretty, too."
"The case, hombre. The case."
"Oh, yes. The case." Oscar roared with laughter. "And if I believe that, you've got a bridge to sell me."
"Maybe I do." Grady smiled, feeling his heavy mood lift for the first time in days. "It comes with all the amenities, including flood, fire, and pestilence."
"With an offer like that, how can I resist?" Oscar snatched a menu from between the sugar shaker and the catsup bottle.
Without a look at the menu, Oscar signaled he was ready to order. "So how's it going? The case, that is."
"Not too well." Grady ran a hand through his damp hair in a frustrated zigzag. "Practically every soul in town's been interviewed. Practically every stone's been turned." They'd found nothing, not even under the pretty flowers in Melinda's garden. "The lab results are inconclusive. No new leads have turned up. It's all come to a dead end. Excuse the pun."
"Murder weapon turn up yet?"
"Not yet. Not likely to, at this point. My only hope is for Melinda Amery to recover her memory." Grady unwrapped the silverware from the paper napkin and put the napkin in his lap. "How about you? Anything unusual show up on your rounds?"
"Nada."
Silence fell over the table like a pall. Feelings or not, he'd deal with Melinda and recover her memory. He had too much at stake not to. So why did he have to remind himself of the fact yet again?
Two water glasses in hand, Janet—Maggie's twenty-something daughter—strolled over to take their orders, keeping her eye on the charming Oscar while she scribbled on her pad.
"I'll have the pork chops," Oscar said, his gaze cataloguing how well the red
-and-white uniform molded Janet's curves. "Well done with extra gravy."
"Give me the lasagna," Grady said. He couldn't help the smile. Watching Oscar watching a woman was a spectacle. He adored women, not in the lascivious intent of a hungry man, but with the loving admiration of a gourmet.
"Uh-uh." As she preened for Oscar, Janet never looked at Grady. "Anything to drink?"
"A beer for me," Oscar answered.
"Ice tea," Grady said, images of Melinda and their afternoon ritual springing unbidden into his mind. He swallowed down the softness swelling in his chest once more.
"Coming right up." Janet sashayed away, and Oscar shook his head appreciatively at the sway of hips.
"I thought you and Gloria were engaged," Grady teased.
Oscar held his hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm not touching, man. I'm being appreciative of the view. Nothing wrong with that. Gloria knows there's no one else for me." Oscar gulped most of the water in his glass. "She's grilling chicken for fajitas tomorrow, want to join us?"
"No, thanks anyway."
Oscar's eyes twinkled with mischief. "You could bring Melinda."
"What makes you think I'd want to bring her?" Grady's hand tightened around his glass.
"Because she's got your guts twisted inside out."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"Didn't believe the grapevine till I saw it with my own eyes tonight."
"What'd you hear?"
"Old Lena Strong told Kerry at the Winn-Dixie, who told Tracy at the beauty parlor, who told Mrs. Mallory. And you know what happens when Mrs. Mallory gets hold of juicy gossip."
"The whole town knows in about five and half minutes."
"You got it."
With one hand, Grady twisted his glass round and round, watching the circle of condensation widen with each turn. "Which means Brasswell knows."
"Maybe not. She's been awfully cozy with that lawyer Ely Amery lately, trying to smoothe over his ruffled feathers over his daughter's jailing."
Grady blew out a frustrated breath. "Great."
"About Melinda—"
"You're wrong." Grady knocked back half his iced tea.
