by Sylvie Kurtz
"Yeah, I can see that." Oscar laughed, then paused to ogle Janet as she brought their meals to the table. As if there had been no interruption, Oscar took up the thread of conversation where it had ended. "You know deep in your gut she's nothing but a lady."
"My guts have been wrong before."
Oscar carefully set his knife and fork on the edge of the plate. "I saw the way you looked at her when we came in. You never looked at Jamie the way you look at Melinda. Jamie was hormones. Melinda is soul." Oscar grinned and wriggled his eyebrows. "Like me and Gloria."
"I think, hombre, that you inhaled too much burning petrol in those Arab oil fields during the Gulf War."
"And maybe you know I'm right. And maybe that's what's got you so scared."
"I'm not scared." Grady pushed away his barely touched plate.
"You can lie to yourself if you want to, but you can't lie to me. You never could." Oscar dug into his meal and rubbed a satisfied hand over his stomach. "So, do you believe her?"
Grady stared at Oscar for a moment. There was no use pretending he didn't understand his friend's question. They knew each other too well. "I don't know. She seems to be exactly what she says she is. But we both know appearances are illusions. She was there. You saw her."
"I saw a frightened woman, not a drunk. Your focus is too narrow, and that's not like you."
Grady ran a hand through his hair. "What else have I got? Angela's ex was helping his new wife deliver their baby the night of the murder. Mike was on his way to Nashville to launch their new career. Everyone loved Angela."
"Maybe that's it. Maybe someone loved her too much."
And everyone who claimed to love her had a solid alibi. Grady took a long drink from his glass. Except Melinda. They'd found her at the scene. Time to start from square one again. Check and recheck. Basic procedures.
"Passion," Oscar said. "It's tough to explain the things it drives people to do. Know what I mean?"
Thinking of Jamie, Grady snorted. "Yeah, too well."
"Take a word of advice, my friend. You got to decide where you stand and stick to it. Either you believe her or you don't. You can't seesaw on top of the fence like that. You'll end up with nothing if you do. No woman. No promotion. Myself, I'd go for the woman."
"I ended up in trouble the last time I took a stand."
"So you're gonna spend the rest of your life with Jamie's shadow hanging over your head? How's that going to help solve Angela's case? I thought you had more sense than that." Oscar reached into his gym bag, drew out several bills, and secured them with the edge of his plate. "I gotta go. Gloria's waiting for me. Wants me to rent her another one of those tearjerkers she likes to watch after her shift at the hospital."
Oscar rolled his eyes, but Grady didn't believe him for a moment. Oscar loved tearjerkers. They brought Gloria into his arms and into his bed. Grabbing his bag, Oscar slipped out of the booth. As he passed Grady, he paused and squeezed Grady's shoulder.
"Take a stand and stick with it. Hear me, man?"
"Yeah, I hear you."
Grady slipped bills onto the tabletop. He'd come to care too much for Melinda in the past week. Her honest goodness, her soft strength, and the pain she so carefully bottled away had gotten to him. Not being able to reach her, to get to the truth, to dislodge the memories trapped inside her mind was driving him crazy.
He stopped at the counter and ordered an assortment of goodies for Seth.
Take a stand and stick with it.
That would require trust—in her, in his muddled hunter's instincts.
The last time he'd trusted, he'd taken a hard fall. He balanced the take-out box in one hand and hitched his bag over his shoulder, then waved goodbye to Maggie and Janet. He was getting too involved with a case, again. Too involved with Melinda.
Trust.
That was the crux of it all.
Did he believe the sea of shades of gray in her eyes, or the black-and-white concrete evidence?
A leap of faith.
Jamie had taught him there were worse things than losing his promotion. He let out a silent burst of ironic laughter. If he was going to screw up, he might as well do it royally.
He had two weeks left before Brasswell announced Seth's replacement. Two weeks to find Angela's murderer. Time enough to stack up the dominoes and see which way they fell.
For now, he'd err on Melinda's side.
He'd rent a monkey suit, let her drag him to her father's highbrow shindig, and see where this particular path of the maze led.
* * *
After a long day of irritating nuisance calls, Grady had finally signed off duty. He'd gone through his chores at the ranch with rapid precision, which Ironsides—with a quick cow kick to the shin—let him know he didn't appreciate. Even with his rushing, he'd found himself with less than half an hour to shower and dress into his rented tux.
As if seeking to irritate him, his answering machine blinked with two messages. One from Aimee wanting him to return the salad bowl he'd borrowed. The other was from Harold Hobart. It was the third of the day. Finding his daughter's killer had become an unhealthy obsession with Harold.
Grady ignored both messages and struggled with the length of black silk that should, he'd been assured, knot into a bow tie. All of his fingers seemed to have suddenly turned into thumbs.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. Quiet was dangerous, because his mind tended to fill the silence with thoughts. And these days, any thoughts, sooner than later turned to Melinda. He cranked on the radio to a classic rock station.
The uneasy quiet had nothing to do with her. He liked quiet. It had never bothered him before. He liked his life the way it was. Few complications besides the usual office politics.
Why was this tie giving him so much grief? He was tired, he decided. Which had nothing to do with Melinda.
"And if you believe that," he said to his reflection in the mirror. "I've got a bridge to sell you."
He'd long ago decided he didn't want a family of his own. His childhood hadn't painted him a rosy picture of marriage. His work drilled into him the declining well-being of the institution. How many fellow officers had taken the plunge only to find they couldn't beat the odds? Serving the law and marriage just didn't mix.
As a cop, he saw the worst side of people, the damage that people could wreak on each other. But he had to admit, if grudgingly, that even with all the misery he saw every day, pockets of happiness existed. Seth and Rita Mullins had been happily married for over forty years. His sister Aimee had found a loving husband in Colton Rangel.
He still didn't want marriage. Desiree was right, he did get too involved with his job. Few women could put up with that. No, he didn't want marriage. Didn't even want love. Just one particular woman.
The one he couldn't have if he wanted the promotion to chief.
He pulled on the loops and they fell apart in his hands. Swearing, he tried the knot once more.
The quicker he got to the secret hidden in Melinda's memory, the quicker she could get back to her life and he to his. It was a good, simple life, and he liked it that way.
Yeah, right. Tell yourself that often enough and you might actually believe it.
He yanked at the lop-sided bow and was about to throw the thing across the room, when a knock rapped against his front door through the pounding beat of rock music. On his way to the door, he snapped off the stereo.
In all the time he'd spent with Melinda, nothing had prepared him for the vision that stood before him. She took his breath away.
She'd twisted her black hair in a sophisticated chignon. A few loose tendrils curled around her face, accentuating the elegant curves of her neck. Her dress, a simple, spaghetti-strapped sheath of black in a soft material that shimmered dark blue when she moved, swirled exquisitely around her knees. Sheer black stockings hugged her shapely calves, and three-inch heels encased her dainty feet. A diaphanous shawl skimmed her shoulders.
And, he noticed, as his gaze lingered o
n the soft curves of her breasts, she wore no bra beneath the dress. As if reading his instant and painful hunger, her nipples hardened beneath the material. He stifled a groan and invited her in.
"You found me," he said, while he sought to reengage his brain.
"I told you I would."
Grady sidestepped to the small mirror in the entryway and fumbled with his tie.
"Here, let me." Melinda reached for his collar, stood it up, then picked up the strip of black silk. With practiced ease, she started the knot
"I don't like ties," he said gruffly.
"Then don't wear it."
"Isn't it expected?"
She chuckled and the sound tickled through him. "And you wouldn't want to breach proper etiquette, would you?"
"Are you laughing at me?"
"No, I could never do that." Her smile erupted through him with a speed and a power so great it surely surpassed nuclear fusion. Her painted lips, so close and bright, begged for a taste. He stuck his hands in his pants pocket to keep them from touching the creamy expanse of skin her dress exposed. "It's nice to know you're human, that's all. I was starting to wonder."
Her fingers at his throat had the strangest effect on the rest of his body. Her touch rippled down his limbs like warm water. He swallowed hard. "Human? What did you think I was?"
"Don't move." She bit her lower lip in order not to smile, but the corners of her mouth twitched up. "A computer."
"Really?" If only she could feel the havoc her flowery perfume created, she'd think twice about her description.
"Yes, really." She patted the bow in place. "There. You're all set and presentable." She looked up at him, her dark eyes shining.
"You are laughing at me?"
"Only a little. Are you nervous?"
"Of course not," he lied. A shindig with a lot of pompous people, pretentious mutual admiration, and pointless small talk. The type of people who thought nothing of using people, then throwing them away like used tissues. Yeah, just how he loved to spend a Saturday night. If it wasn't that he was desperate to have access to her repressed memories, she couldn't have gotten him within a ten-mile radius of the Van Horn home tonight. "Why did you ask me to come with you?"
She shrugged and turned away. Her gaze took in his surroundings, and Grady found himself wishing he'd bought a plant to liven up the place. For himself, of course, not for her. Her hand trailed the back of the recliner and tangled in the soft wool of the red-and-white afghan Aimee had given him last Christmas. He'd forgotten to fold it and return it to the foot of his bed after spending the night on the recliner.
"I want you to see what kind of world I grew up in. I want you to understand...." She shrugged again. The caged animal restlessness he'd observed so often returned. "I'm not sure what it is I'm expecting." A pained look crossed her delicately made-up face. "There's good and bad, Grady. I want you to see the gray. If everything were black-and-white, there would be no monster. It exists because of the gray." Her forehead wrinkled. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"
"I think so."
She gave him a tentative smile. "I have something to confess."
That perked his attention. "What?"
"I hate these chichi affairs, too." Her smile widened. "Are you ready?"
He offered his arm and she placed her long-fingered hand around his elbow. It looked right there—as if it belonged.
"You know," she said, giving him a coy look. "For a country cop you sure fill a tux well."
Laughter rumbled through him. "For a stuck-up socialite, you don't look half-bad yourself." The evening might not prove so dismal after all.
As they went through the front door, the phone rang. Knob in hand and key poised, Grady listened while the answering machine whirr on. Hearing Harold Hobart's voice, Grady shut the door with a definitive click.
Chapter 9
Though it wasn't dark yet, more than a dozen golden luminaries lit the bricked path to Roger and Emily Van Horn's house in Fort Worth's posh Rivercrest area. At the curb, two valets waited to park the car. One opened Melinda's door. The other came around to take Grady's place in the driver's seat.
"Jackson. What are you doing here?" Grady asked. He barely recognized Carson Crew's father clean and sober.
"I was doing some carpentry work for Mr. Van Horn's office and he asked me if I'd be interested in some extra money. Not that it's any of your business."
Grady moved out of the way and allowed Jackson to sit in Melinda's Volvo. He leaned over the open door. "Does he know about your little problem?"
"He knows what he needs to know." When Jackson looked up at him, murder shone in his eyes. "Don't you go ruin this for me. It's bad enough you've got Carson's head filled with that scholarship crap."
"He's a good enough pitcher to get a baseball scholarship to any college he wants next year."
"He's needed at home."
"He's got the chance to get a good education."
"Carpentry's good enough for me. It'll be good enough for him." With that, Jackson slammed the door and roared off. Grady watched him drive away, pondering Carson's future. If the boy stayed at home, he'd end up no better than his father, and Carson had too much potential to waste this way. College scouts had been invited to the Mustang-Trojan game at the Fall Festival. Carson would get his chance. When he turned back to Melinda, Grady decided he'd make sure Carson took advantage of it.
Curiosity danced in her eyes, but Grady chose to ignore her silent question. Smiling at her, he took her elbow and led her to the house.
They were among the first to arrive. Emily Van Horn fluttered by for a quick welcome before she zipped away to check on last-minute details.
Drink in hand, Ely stood outside on the patio deep in conversation with Melinda's windmill-handed partner. Those hands worked overtime at the moment and the expression on the petite woman's face wasn't a pleasant one. In the midst of her tirade, she noticed them approaching, stopped abruptly and smiled worriedly at them.
Interesting.
Melinda greeted Dolores and touched her father's arm. Coiffed hair and red rose in place on his lapel, he turned toward her with a warm smile and gave her a hug.
"I thought you were going to get here early." With an exaggerated motion, Ely checked his watch and tapped the glass with one finger.
"I am early." Her pretty smile didn't waver, but Grady sensed the tension winding itself through Melinda's beautiful neck and shoulders and all the way down her slender back. He almost reached for the knotted triangle between her bared shoulder blades to soothe away the tightness.
Ely's gaze cut over Melinda's head and aimed straight at Grady. "The hired help is to report at the kitchen entrance."
"He's my guest, Daddy." As if to show the truth of her statement, she wrapped a hand around his elbow. Her long fingers dug into the folds of the jacket's material. To his dismay, his body answered her touch with a sharp flash of desire. Adrenaline, he decided—from being on guard in this unfamiliar territory. Nothing more.
"Why on earth would you want to do that?" No one could have missed the derision in Ely's voice. Was he putting on the thick act for the hick cop? Bitterness slid down Grady's throat and tightened his stomach, but he didn’t let any sign of it show.
The tightening of Melinda's fingers around his elbow told him she wasn't pleased with the conversation—because her father was questioning her judgment, or because he was putting down her date? You're getting much too cynical. Or was she using him, too, for her own ends? As Jamie had?
"To prove a point," she said.
"You don't have to prove anything, and certainly not to the likes of him."
"Not to him, Daddy. To me." She turned deliberately to Dolores, and Grady had to admire the way Melinda kept her cool and hung on to her dignity. "I didn't know you'd be here tonight."
"Emily's an old friend." Waving her hands, Dolores snorted. "Don't know why she thought I'd enjoy such a crowd. Let's get you something to drink." With a stern look in
Ely's direction, she linked her arm through Melinda's and led her back inside. Before they'd even turned away, Ely had prowled on to more stimulating conversation with a hyena-grinned cohort.
"It's good for you to be around people your own age once in a while," Melinda teased Dolores.
"Maybe you're right. It's hard to keep up with all those energetic hunks whose hearts you insist on breaking. I'm not as young as I used to be." She glanced at Grady over Melinda's shoulder. Her eyes crinkled with mischief. "I'm glad to see you're following your own advice."
"It's not what you think."
Dolores sighed with exaggeration. "It never is." She reached back and hooked her free arm around Grady's, pulling him forward. "I think, Lieutenant, that you ought to take Melinda out on a real date sometime."
"Is that so?" Amused, Grady smiled at Melinda, who blushed a pretty shade of pink and rolled of her eyes back in exasperation.
"You both look like you need a dash of life injected into your existence," Dolores said. "You're too young to be this serious."
"Don't listen to her, she doesn't believe in minding her own business," Melinda warned. "If you're not careful, she'll line up half-a-dozen dates for you before the evening's out."
He liked seeing her this way—all soft and warm, her smile radiant and bright. There was no doubt she loved the older woman at her side. Was this how she'd been before the incident brought the shadow of fear into her dark eyes? Seeing her like this, he wanted to believe she was as innocent as she appeared.
Take a stand and stick to it, Oscar had told him. It wasn't like Grady to waver, and he didn't like it one bit. Was he erring on her side to unravel the lies, or was he falling for those deep, dark eyes?
The pretty people had turned out en masse to honor one of their own. It took Grady less than a second to spot Ely Amery among the press of people in the living room that was growing more crowded by the minute. He had to admit the man had style. Ely worked the throng, acknowledging the most and the least of them with a touch or a word, making them feel special, yet somehow keeping a distance. He'd seen that same invisible wall around Melinda often enough to recognize it. So charmed and honored were they, most didn't notice the screen the "king" drew around himself. Didn't these people see how he used them? Didn't they realize that he put their safety in jeopardy by setting the guilty free without a blink of conscience?
