by Rebecca York
By the end of the morning, he was feeling frustrated. Maybe the crime scene report would lead to something, he thought as he pulled into the parking lot behind the Warfield Building, Howard County Police headquarters.
As he started for the back door, the conversation of two uniformed officers—a man and a woman—drifted toward him. One of them was complaining loudly about a call he’d answered the evening before.
“You think my shoes look bad this morning, you ought to have seen them last night after I spent an hour mucking around a sheep farm out by the fairgrounds. There was this weird broad out there. She must be kind of cracked.” He stopped and tapped his head. “Called 911 to report a friend was in trouble. She kept saying her name over and over, Hallie Bradshaw. Kept telling me she’d heard Bradshaw calling for help.”
Cal felt a zing along his nerve endings. Whirling, he approached the officer with the complaint. Miles Brodie, his name was. Cal had worked with him before and found him to be a pretty straight shooter.
“How’s it going?”
“Fine, except for my ruined shoes.”
“Did I hear you mention the name Hallie Bradshaw?” Cal asked.
Brodie looked up. “Yeah. That mean something to you?”
“She was reported missing this morning, and there were signs of a struggle at her town house.”
Brodie whistled through his teeth. “Wonder what that sheep-farm lady knows about it. She was pretty insistent that I check her property last night. Wouldn’t let me leave until I’d tramped around a couple of disgusting fields.”
“Give me her name and address. I’d like to ask her some questions.”
Brodie dug his notebook out of his pocket and flipped through the pages.
“Beth Wagner,” he said. “Thirty-two fifty Old Bridge Road. In Friendship.”
Cal copied down the address. “So this old bat who had you shifting through the sheep droppings—is she gonna shoot me for trespassing?”
Brodie laughed. “Well, she did have a gun. And a big dog that looks like he could rip out your throat if she gave him the word. Got your Mace?”
“Yeah.”
“But she’s not an old bat. She’s young. In her late twenties, I’d say. Good-looking. Long blond hair. Blue eyes. Nice little figure.” He started to gesture with his hands, then stopped abruptly and glanced at the female officer still standing in front of him as he realized he’d gone one beat too far in the description.
“Thanks,” Cal drawled.
“No problem.”
Reversing his direction, Cal headed back toward his car wondering how the lady in Friendship was going to react to the news about Hallie Bradshaw. Of course, he wasn’t going to spill the beans right away. Instead, he’d act as if he was just following up on Brodie’s investigation. Then he’d spring the bad news and watch Wagner’s reaction.
IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL spring day, the sun shining on beds of daffodils and tulips adorning the front yards of the old farmhouses along Route 144. Cal saw the flowers as a blur of color, his mind on the nutcase he was going to interview. Really, he wished Brodie hadn’t made the observation about the woman’s mental condition, since he preferred to form his own impression.
Musing on mental instability led his thoughts to his friend Hannah Dawson, the former Baltimore police detective who’d quit the force after watching a teenager bleed out on the street. For a couple of months there, he’d been worried as hell about her, afraid she was taking a plunge off the deep end. Then she’d joined the Light Street Detective Agency and gotten hooked up with a client named Luke Pritchard, whose real name was Lucas Somerville. Now he answered to either Luke or Lucas. Cal had mistrusted Lucas when he’d first met him.
In fact, the guy had gotten her into a heap of trouble investigating a drug deal gone bad. And now they were both lying low for a couple of reasons. Luke thought Hannah wasn’t safe until whoever was out to revenge the death of that dead teen was apprehended. And there was another loose end—from Luke’s own past. The crime boss trying to kill him had disappeared, which meant that Luke himself was still a target.
As soon as they were in the clear, they were getting married. A pretty radical step, as far as Cal was concerned. Sure, Luke had been good for Hannah. But in Cal’s experience, relationships didn’t last. And tying the knot was the ultimate risk—a risk he had vowed never to take. Heck, his parents had only been hitched long enough to keep him from being labeled a bastard. It was Dad who had raised him, Dad who’d earned his respect and his loyalty. Which was why he was working in Howard County instead of the city—because he’d moved out here to be closer to the old man when his health had started failing. Now Dad was dead, and Cal had inherited a house that was twice as big as anything he needed.
His thoughts were focused so far inward that he realized with a start that he must have overshot the turnoff to Old Bridge Road.
Up ahead was a new development of tract mansions—obscenely big houses on three-acre lots, eating up prime farmland, if he was any judge. He pulled into one of the driveways, made a U-turn, then backtracked to the crossing, focusing his mind on how to play the interview with Beth Wagner for maximum effect. Sometimes the initial approach to a witness made the difference between getting the information you needed and coming up with squat.
Maybe he’d go with the disarming country charm and exaggerate his North Carolina accent to put the crazy lady at ease.
Once on Old Bridge, he started checking numbers on the mailboxes, his gaze taking in the still-unspoiled land, wondering how long it would be before the acreage was gobbled up by some developer.
Thirty-two fifty was at the end of a long lane that wound upward through a stand of hardwood trees, then rolling fields. He couldn’t even see the house from the road. Apparently it was in as isolated a spot as you could find in the county these days. In fact, if you were up to something illegal, this would be a great place to locate your business.
He saw the sheep in the corner of one field, puffy beige shapes accented with black at the face and legs, and imagined Brodie scattering them as he floundered through the field at night looking for Hallie Bradshaw.
Did Wagner tend the flock herself or did she have help?
As he rounded a turn in the road, a red painted barn came into view. Then a two-story farmhouse with a wide front porch. The property looked pretty well kept up, which meant that Wagner was either doing exceptionally well with her sheep or she had another source of income.
Before he could exit his car, the dog Brodie had warned him about leaped off the porch, barking at the top of its lungs and snapping its jaw as it lunged for the car.
Cal was glad there was a metal door and a shatterproof window between himself and the incredibly ugly brute. No way was he planning to get out of the car without a suit of armor—or an order from the woman to call off her beast.
He thought about honking the horn, but he figured Wagner could hear the barking about as well as he could. So he sat there waiting.
It didn’t take long for the woman to appear. Momentarily startled, he stared at her, thinking that Brodie hadn’t nearly done her justice in his brief description.
She was wearing jeans and sandals under a long, soft shirt with stripes of peach, mint, aqua and other pastel colors that blended in a shifting cloud of color as she moved.
Her wavy blond hair was long and loose, reaching halfway down her back. Rapunzel, he thought, the hair and her delicate features making him think of the old fairy tale. A captive in her tower.
Only now she was out there walking around, and he was the captive—in his own vehicle, he reminded himself sharply.
He rolled down his window enough to be heard, but not so far that the dog’s snapping teeth could connect with any part of his anatomy.
“Cal Rollins, Howard County Police,” he said, holding up his badge.
She studied the shield, then turned to the animal.
“Granger, it’s all right. The man is all right. He’s a friend.”
Her
voice tightened on the last word. Interesting. Was she still smarting from her encounter with Brodie? Or did she have something to hide?
He watched the graceful way she moved, watched the way the dog instantly responded to her words, as if he could understand what she was saying. Still, she reached down and snapped a leash onto the dog’s collar, keeping him at her side.
Cal squared his shoulders and stepped out of the car.
“Let him smell your hand,” she said, making it more of an order than a suggestion.
Remembering that Brodie hadn’t sported any bloody stumps, Cal bent at the waist and extended his arm. The dog gave him a good sniff, keeping his eyes on him.
“Good boy. What’s his name?”
“Granger.”
“Hello, Granger. I’m Cal Rollins,” he said, progressing from allowing himself to be sniffed by the large black nose to squatting beside the dog and petting the massive head. He liked dogs, liked making friends with this one. But he also had an ulterior motive. Keeping himself busy with the animal gave him the perfect opportunity to delay announcing his purpose, to let her wonder why he was following up Brodie’s late-night visit.
From the corner of his eye he watched Ms. Wagner shift from one sandal-clad foot to the other, brush back a lock of that spun-gold hair as she waited for him to speak.
After several moments, she asked, “Is this about Hallie?”
“Yes,” he answered, giving nothing more away as he stood up again and regarded her with a neutral stare.
She looked nervous. Achingly vulnerable. And sexy in a fresh, innocent way that set off a little buzz inside his skull. He caught himself starting to shake his head to clear his thoughts, then squeezed his hand into a fist at his side instead, surprised and annoyed by his reaction to her. Keep your mind on business, Rollins, he silently warned himself.
She made a barely audible sound in her throat then asked, “Would you like to come inside?”
“Yes.”
They started toward the house. Apparently the dog wasn’t accustomed to the leash, because he dashed across her path, heading toward the porch.
The mesh cord hit her across the legs, and with a startled exclamation, she lurched forward, automatically letting go of the strap as she fought to keep her balance.
Cal moved swiftly, reaching for her as she tumbled toward the hard concrete of the front walk. She landed heavily against his body, her hands coming up to grasp his shoulders as she drew in a strangled breath.
“Easy. You’re all right,” he murmured, unconsciously drawing out the words as he supported her in his grasp. He was thinking that he would just make sure she was steady on her feet and then let her go, but his hands stayed where they were. His senses were already cataloging a dozen impressions as he held her, and his arms failed to turn her loose. He felt her fragile, fine-boned body, inhaled her scent—like a field of fresh flowers after a spring rain, responded to the way her breasts pressed against his chest and her hands cupped over his shoulders as she clung to him for support.
It was the most natural thing in the world to keep hanging on to her, holding her upright as she swayed slightly in his embrace.
His eyes closed, and for several heartbeats his befuddled brain forgot the reason he had taken her into his arms in the first place. All he knew was that he was holding a very desirable woman—a woman who had given herself into his care, given him her total trust. At least for these few moments in time.
Perhaps she was just as addle-brained as he, because she stayed where she was, her head drifting to his shoulder.
It felt right—as right as stroking his fingers over her sun-drenched hair, running his hand up and down her delicate back, then lowering to the curve of her hip.
He made a low sound in his throat. His own private rule number one was “Never lose yourself in a woman’s arms.” Total surrender was too dangerous, so there was always some part of himself he held back. Now he felt adrift in a dream—a daydream full of warm sunshine and an even warmer woman. Turning his head, he buried his nose in her hair and breathed in the floral fragrance.
The sound of a loud bark brought him back to reality. He didn’t know he had closed his eyes until they blinked open—at the same moment the pliant woman in his embrace drew back and stared up at him, a questioning look in her blue eyes.
He felt as if he were drowning in the deep pools of those eyes, eyes that asked questions he couldn’t answer.
When he didn’t speak, she stepped quickly away from him, her hand smoothing down the side of her jeans.
How long had he been holding her? Five seconds? Ten? An eternity?
Her voice sounded thick as she said, “Thank you for catching me.”
He cleared his own throat and spoke with some difficulty. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, looking as if she wasn’t quite sure it was the truth. Then she turned on her heel and started for the house.
He stood there on her front walk, still feeling the impact of her body pressed to his, while he silently cursed his unprofessional behavior. He was supposed to be interviewing the woman on a missing person’s case, not making love to her.
The dog stayed on the porch. That was good. At least he and Wagner weren’t going to do an impromptu tango with the leash again.
Lips pressed against his teeth, Cal followed her up the three steps to the porch, across the beige painted boards and into a front hall that seemed dark after the bright sunshine outside.
Keeping his eyes pinned to her flowing blond hair, he followed her into a sitting room filled with old-fashioned furniture—stuff that might have come from a fancy antique shop, although he suspected that it had probably been in this house for a long time.
The faded upholstery was enlivened with colorful pillows that looked as though they’d been created by the same artist who had executed the modern tapestries that adorned the walls.
For a moment she stood with her back to him. Under other circumstances, he might have put that down to being nervous about talking to the police. This afternoon he knew it had as much to do with his catching her in his arms and failing to turn her loose.
He’d blown the interview before it had even started. Now the best he could do was damage control. Resisting the impulse to swipe his fingers through his dark hair, he pulled out his notebook. “You called 911 last night,” he said. “And an officer came out.”
She turned around. “Yes.”
“I haven’t listened to the tape. What was the reason for the message, exactly?”
“If you haven’t listened to the tape, why are you here?”
Score one for her. “A routine investigation,” he snapped.
At least he had the satisfaction of seeing her look uncomfortable, evasive. “I thought I heard my friend Hallie Bradshaw calling for help. I thought she might be somewhere around my farm. But when the officer checked—Officer Brodie—he didn’t find anyone here.”
“You were in the house alone last night?”
“Yes.”
“You run this farm by yourself?”
“I lease out some of the fields for corn and other crops. The same man takes care of the sheep.”
“His name?”
“Tim Fillmore. He lives a couple of miles from here. He wasn’t at the farm last night, if that’s what you’re interested in.”
“I’m interested in what you know about Ms. Bradshaw.”
Wagner made a fluttering motion with her hand. “We were friends when we were little. She went to school with me—elementary school, middle school, high school. I haven’t kept in touch with her recently.”
“But last night, specifically…” He let the question trail off.
“Last night I thought I heard her calling for help.”
He kept his voice businesslike. “Last night she was supposed to meet friends for dinner at a local restaurant. When she didn’t show up, one of them—Karen Philips—called her house several times, then checked at her town house this morning.”
He saw the tension gathering in her features and her body as though she’d been dreading this moment since he’d shown her his badge.
“Ms. Philips found signs of a struggle. A lamp was overturned.”
“And blood,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper.
As she spoke, his gaze took in every detail of her face, her body language. Her skin had turned pale, almost translucent, and she looked as if she was going to snap in two.
“You were there? You saw the blood?”
“No.”
“I didn’t mention that detail. How do you know it, then?”
She gave him a helpless look, touched her hand to her temple as if she had suddenly acquired a headache. “I saw it. In my mind.”
He felt his throat clench as comprehension dawned. Then anger washed over him as he realized he’d been reeled in like a trout who had gone for a bright lure. “Are you trying to tell me you’re plugged into the psychic hot line? You expect me to fall for that?”
Brodie was right. He was face-to-face with a certifiable nutcase.
Chapter Two
Beth struggled to keep the pain and frustration from her features as she stared at the man facing her. No, not just a man. A Howard County Police detective, she reminded herself with a stab of chagrin. He’d lured her into a trap with his easy manner and his soft country voice—then had snapped the metal teeth around her neck.
Was it possible that a few minutes ago he’d held her in his arms, and she’d felt both his strength and his gentleness? Or had she made that up? That and a whole lot more.
He’d cradled her against his tall, supple body, stroked his hand down her back, caressing her hair, and she’d felt an unaccustomed connection to him, an awareness building between them. He’d made a low, urgent sound in his throat, and she’d forgotten why he had come out to the farm, forgotten the reason why he’d put his arms around her.
Her response hadn’t been appropriate, she knew. And when she’d pulled away from him, she’d been embarrassed and unsure of herself.
His dark eyes had still been warm when they’d looked at her. But slowly that warmth had evaporated so that only a tough, probing expression remained.
