by Sylvie Kurtz
A sour taste filled Grady's mouth. Power. Ely Amery oozed with it. Even the law had to bend for it—the kind of absolute power Grady had fought to keep his family together after his parents' death. He spun his gaze away and concentrated on the woman on his arm.
Melinda worked the crowd with ease, making introductions and polite conversation in a practiced way, including him every chance she got. She fit in perfectly. Grady had to admit he was out of his element.
He wanted to rip the tie off his neck and loose his collar button. The atmosphere in the room was stifling. It reminded him of the first time he'd walked into a courtroom. So much had hung in the balance then. He focused on Melinda's dark eyes. So much hung in the balance now. He needed to pay attention and set his unease aside.
Watch and listen.
Did the Van Horns realize the guy promenading puffs on a platter was a con? His walk gave him away. Freedom was fresh, from the look of things. The middle-aged blonde with a bad face-lift had sticky fingers. He'd seen her glance unobtrusively at the gold cigarette case on the occasional table more times than for mere curiosity. He'd bet his boots it would end up in that large purse of hers before the evening was over. And the guy trying to kiss Roger Van Horn's butt was lying through every one of his capped teeth. Body language gave him away as surely as a color magazine ad. Amazing. And they called themselves the "cream" of society.
A set of red nails touched his arm and brought his attention back to the semicircle of people around him.
"You're the officer who testified in the Walker case, aren't you?" the woman with the red hair and purple dress said. He'd missed her name. "Remember, Melinda? Two years ago when Jamie Walker was accused of killing her brother John, he's the one who helped get her off. That was an incredible piece of courtroom drama your dad pulled off."
The incredible part, Grady sneered silently, was that he'd fallen for the scenario hook, line and sinker without even realizing the reputation he'd spent a lifetime building was the bait. He glanced at his watch. An hour and a half had trickled by since their arrival.
Someone tapped a crystal glass with a spoon, causing a ripple of noise. Mrs. Van Horn announced that dinner was about to start.
He glanced down at the liquid in his wineglass. For once, he wished it held something stronger than water. It was going to be a long evening.
* * *
Droning speech after droning speech muddled Melinda's mind. A dull ache throbbed on one side of her head. Since her father's return, she'd had more headaches than she'd had in the past two years he'd spent in the Northeast. Was there a connection? Of course not. She loved her father dearly even if he did manage to make her angry every time they spent more than a few minutes together.
This was his day. She'd try her best to remain composed. She studied the crowd and spotted Dolores deep in conversation with Emily Van Horn. Once again, Dolores's presence here twitched at her curiosity. There was no love lost between Dolores and her father. Ever since her mother had died, Dolores had not had one good word to say about the man. Knowing how much Melinda cared for him, Dolores more often than not chose to change the subject rather than talk about Ely. So why was she here at a party honoring someone she couldn't stand?
Melinda caught Grady's eye and smiled at him. He smiled back and returned to fighting off Kaitlin Carter's not-so-subtle under-the-table come-ons. He was holding up well. The taut lines of his face told her he hated every second of this ordeal, but to most people, he'd look as if he was paying rapt attention to every word being uttered by the speakers. She was starting to know him well enough to realize he was looking, always looking, for something out of place. Did he ever relax?
Of course, in a place like this, no matter how used to it she was, neither could she.
With the meal eaten and the speeches finished, the assembled guests once again returned to the living room and spilled onto the outdoor patio. Grady was discussing the merits of various woods in flavoring smoked meat with the owner of the busiest upscale barbecue restaurant in town, and Melinda took the opportunity to excuse herself and visit the ladies' room.
As she reached for the bathroom light switch, someone called her name. Pausing at the door, she saw Dolores hurrying toward her. Dolores darted a look back into the living room, then pushed Melinda inside the cavernous bathroom and closed the door.
"I wanted to talk to you for a minute," Dolores said.
"Is anything wrong?" Melinda asked, curious about Dolores's odd behavior. Shotgun blunt she was, and not given to behind-closed-door discussions.
Dolores leaned against the door and smiled. "I just wanted to ask how you were holding up."
"Me? I'm fine." Melinda laughed softly. "Why wouldn't I be? I hate these functions, but I've been to a million of them, and could handle them in my sleep."
Dolores shrugged, her hands uncharacteristically still, flattened against the carved wooden door. "People aren't giving you a hard time, are they?"
Melinda turned from Dolores and perched her purse on the marble counter. "About the murder?"
Dolores nodded, anxiety pulling her pencil-thin eyebrows together. The intensity, too, was uncharacteristic of this usually easygoing woman. What was going on?
"No one's mentioned it directly." Melinda fiddled with the tiny purse's contents, looking for her lipstick, and shrugged casually. "There've been a few awkward silences, that's all." But she'd heard all the questions behind the lines, seen the speculation in glances held just a bit too long, and sensed the doubt couched in polished politeness.
"That's good. I was afraid—" Dolores sank onto the bathtub's edge. Her earnest gaze intercepted Melinda's in the mirror. "That's why I came tonight. So you'd have a friend. In case an awkward situation came up."
Melinda quirked a smile. Of course, now Dolores's presence here made sense. She was a good friend. "Like what?"
"Indelicate questions. Accusations. Do the police have a lead yet?"
Just me, she started to say, then changed her mind. She would have to explain too much she herself didn't understand. Dolores worried too much as it was. She didn't need to know about the terror, the dreams or the unnerving tension that filled her whenever Grady Sloan was near. Melinda didn't want anyone to know about the fear humming on the edges of her consciousness and her own lingering doubts about the missing time and what might have happened. She noticed how tight her grip on her lipstick had gotten and forced herself to relax. "Not that I know of."
"I hope, for your sake, they arrest someone soon."
"Thanks, Dolores. For caring." With care against her not-quite-steady fingers, she filled her lips with red color she didn't really need. With a casualness she didn't feel, she dropped the lipstick back into her open purse.
"You can stay with me for a while, if that'll help. I don't like the idea of you being alone in that house of yours. It's too secluded."
As Melinda leaned closer to the mirror to inspect the rest of her makeup, she gave a dry laugh. What was she? A poster child for the dysfunctional adult? "I'm a big girl now. I can take care of myself."
"I know. I just worry about you."
"Ever since my mother died, you've been there for me. If I needed anything, you're the first person I'd go to."
"I'm glad." Dolores picked at nonexistent lint on her light coral dress. "Your mother …"
Melinda glanced into the mirror at the reflection of Dolores jumping up from the bathtub's edge. "Yes?"
Dolores gave her a watery smile. "Your mother would be proud of you." She reached for the knob and opened the door. "I'm here for you, Melinda. Always. Remember that."
Before Melinda could swallow the choked-up knot in her throat, Dolores disappeared, clicking the door shut behind her.
Moments later, while she still pondered Dolores's unusual show of emotion, Melinda's father intercepted her.
"You look pale," Ely said, handing her a glass of white wine. "Is everything all right?"
"I'm fine, Daddy." She accepted the glass and too
k a sip.
"I've got a great idea." Ely wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her lowly into the buzzing living room. "Why don't you let me take you to St. Thomas? We could both use a little vacation."
"No, really, Daddy. I can't take a vacation right now. I have too much going on at the office."
He quirked his head ad gave her a roguish grin. "It would be like old times. We could rent a villa on the beach and relax. I'm worried about you."
"You worry too much. Really, I'm fine." The fingers of her left hand found the clasp on her purse and squeezed the decorative beads open and closed. "Between you and Dolores wanting to put me behind glass like some sort of fine china, it's a wonder I can function independently at all."
"We care for you."
"I know you do." She relaxed her head against his shoulder. "I'm lucky to have both of you in my life."
As her father glanced at Grady's approaching figure, his features hardened. The genial face acquired a subtle edge. "He's not giving you a hard time, is he?"
"No, he's actually making this evening half-enjoyable." Grady's long, confident steps shot a zing of electricity through her. Her skin tightened in anticipation of his nearness and an ache that was becoming familiar settled low in her belly. She didn't understand her reaction to this man, wasn't sure she liked it. But there it was, and becoming stronger with each step closer he took.
Her father frowned down at her. "When did you become so friendly?"
She wondered at the agitation she sensed beneath the calm surface. "It's not what you think."
"He's using you."
She looked up at her father, a mischievous streak she didn't know she had bubbled to the surface. "Maybe I'm using him."
"That's a dangerous game."
The surprised glint in her father's eyes pleased her. "I've had the best teacher, so you can stop worrying about me, okay?"
Ely challenged Grady before he'd even reached them. "How's the investigation on the Petersen case coming along?"
"We're making progress."
"So you've got a suspect?" Her father's voice held just the right touch of incredulity.
"You know I can't talk about an ongoing investigation." Grady stood close to her, close enough to touch her, if she could manage to take a full breath. His heat rippled into her, and suddenly, she had an overpowering urge to leave, to feel wide-open spaces around her, to hear the quiet sounds of night in her garden.
"Ah, yes, the rules," her father mocked. "You were very good at those, weren't you?"
An adversarial tension crackled between the two men, making her feel once again as if she were a boat about to enter a storm-tossed sea.
"I prefer the truth these days."
"That's good to know." Like a dog who'd found a meaty bone, her father practically salivated at the building confrontation.
Okay, enough was enough. She didn't intend to get shredded, trapped between two dueling dogs, when they starting taking bloody chunks out of each other's hides. She handed Grady her wineglass. "Grady, please, could you get me my shawl?"
Reluctantly, Grady took her glass, nodded and left.
"You've got to stop seeing him, Melinda. It's not healthy." Her father's fingertips bored into her shoulders. She swiveled around to face him and free herself from the uncomfortable grip. "I don't like the idea of him pushing you so hard."
"It was my idea." She wadded the purse's long silken strap in her hand.
"Your idea?"
"Yes." Slowly, she released her grip on the string, watching the little pouch swirl in a mad arc down to her ankles. "I-I've had memory blanks, nightmares, ever since I can remember. I haven't had a life, Daddy. Not a real one. That's what I want now."
A shocked look crossed his face. "Nightmares? Memory blanks? Why haven't you said anything about this?"
"You're not exactly the easiest person to admit a weakness to."
"And a bumbling country cop is?" Disbelief lit his face in a grotesque distortion, like an old-fashioned mask in a play.
"I trust him."
"But not your own father? I don't like this one bit, Melinda. If you need help, I'll get you some professional help. This man couldn't find a clue if it was handed to him on a silver platter."
From where she stood, Melinda became conscious of raindrops pattering the pool's surface. A feeling of suffocation overwhelmed her. She gasped, disoriented. The night spun. Her hand sought something—anything—for support and found Grady's arm.
"There, you see what I mean. Look how pale you've gotten. You look positively sick. Let me take care of you, Melinda."
She hated the feeling of being manipulated by her father's cajoling voice. Hated the feeling she was failing him once more. Hated herself for doubting his motives. He loved her. He wanted what was best for her.
"Can't you give your old man the pleasure of taking care of his little girl? One week, Melinda. What harm can it do?"
It was easy to see why he was so effective in court. He played the guilt card now, and it had the desired effect, rumbling through her, cracking her self-confidence, eroding her determination.
Grady handed Melinda her shawl. Their fingers touched. In that small point of body contact, of heat, of breathless desire, she found her strength again. "If you'll excuse us, Daddy. Grady has an early shift in the morning, and I promised him I'd get him home early." Lying was coming to her with an ease she could never have imagined.
"Call me when you get home." It was an order, no doubt about it. She'd left Daddy out of the loop, and he wasn't used to that.
"I will."
As she made her way across the house and said her goodbyes, her father's sharp-as-a-knife gaze stabbed her between the shoulders. Maybe he was right. Maybe she was playing a dangerous game with the persistent lieutenant. Maybe her father was right to worry about her ability to take care of herself. Her record in that department wasn't exactly a shining example of feminist self-reliance. On the other hand, maybe she was just getting downright paranoid. Not a pretty thought.
"What was that all about?" Grady asked as they waited for a valet to bring her car around. They stood side by side, not touching, yet she was aware of every solid inch of him.
"Nothing." She pasted on a pleasant smile and turned to him, putting extra space between them and finding it didn't diminish at all the strength of his presence. "What did you think of the party?"
"There's enough gray here to paint a barn," he said wryly.
She chuckled. "Buckets and buckets."
A fat raindrop splattered against her face and dripped down her cheek like a large tear. Her laughter faded. The rising wind caught the hem of her dress and swirled the material around her knees. She looked up at the sky. And as black clouds churned into the sky, she realized her quest for peace was far from over.
* * *
"You're going the wrong way," Melinda said to Grady as he turned into Laurel Court instead of continuing straight to his own house.
"A gentleman always sees a lady home."
"Don't be ridiculous. It's raining. How are you going to get home?"
"I'll call someone when we get to your place."
He slowed the car and turned into her driveway. The windshield wipers slapped the pouring rain away from the glass, giving alternating views of wavy night and the stark clarity of dark glass.
"What's wrong?" Grady asked.
"I—I thought I left a light on." She shrugged. She was going to drive herself nuts if she kept on like this. There was nothing wrong. It was just the rain making her tense again. Would September ever end this year? "I must be mistaken."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course." She reached for the handle and opened the door.
"I'll walk you in."
Pausing, one foot out of the car, she looked at him. "That's not necessary."
"I've got to make a call anyway."
"Yes, of course." She handed him her house key, then pulled her shawl over her head and made a dash for the front do
or.
As Grady pushed the door open, an orange streak shot out. Melinda gasped. Her hand went to her heart. Grady shoved her against the house, shielding her body with his.
"Rusty?" she said as she watched Angela's cat skitter around the corner of her house. "What was he doing inside?"
Grady tensed. "Did he sneak in before you left?"
"He refuses to come inside. Always has." She started forward, but he stopped her, once again pushing her flat against the outside wall.
"Stay!" Not looking at her, he edged forward. "I mean it. Don't come in until I give the all-clear. Got it?"
"But—"
"Got it?"
"Yes."
He eased into the house, reaching under his jacket. For his gun? Of course, he was a police officer. Never really off duty.
With one hand, he reached for the light switch by the door. The rigid lines of his back made her uneasy. Gun ahead of him, he took one step in, and swung his arms in an arc as he swept the room for an intruder. He tilted his head, and scanned the inside of her living room as if he were seeing it for the first time. Dripping wet, Melinda wedged herself between the doorframe and Grady's hard body.
"I said, stay outside!"
At the sight of spilled pots and general chaos, she gasped. Quietly, he made a quick round of the rest of the house. She barely noticed. With zombie-like steps, she crouched to pick up the mangled Chinese evergreen closest to her. Rain from her hair dripped onto the scattered earth, turning the edges of the pile into small puddles of mud.
"Don't touch anything," Grady growled as he slipped his gun back in its holster.
She glanced up and found his gaze focused on the big dracaena knocked on its side, its terracotta pot a jigsaw puzzle of shards around its roots. One piece of pottery was missing. From the hole, came the glint of metal.
Grady carefully bent over the pot. With the tip of a pen he extracted from his pocket, he plucked a few more pottery pieces aside. He moved a hairbreadth, giving her a clear view of the object of his focus.
