by Marta Perry
Clint pulled into a parking space. “I’ll walk you up.” He’d gone back to his usual businesslike tone...the one that said arguing was useless.
He opened her door. She slid out, the movement bringing her very close to him. Their gazes met, and emotion shimmered between them, shaking her by its intensity.
Then he stepped back, closing and locking the door without a word. Together they walked toward the elevator.
When they reached her room, Rachel fully expected Clint to leave, his duty done. Even though his last few comments had been a bit more relaxed, his face had settled into those stoic lines that gave no clue to his thoughts.
But she was wrong. Taking the key card from her hand, he entered the room first and began the routine of checking. She sat down on the edge of the bed, suddenly wiped out. Was it only this morning that they were standing in the chicken pen at the farm, laughing over the baby chicks?
Clint went in the bathroom, and she heard the rattle of rings as he thrust the shower curtain back. When he emerged, she was looking at him, eyebrows lifted.
“Haven’t you forgotten something? You didn’t check under the bed.”
His lips twitched, just a little. He bent solemnly, lifted the floral bedspread, and peered under the bed. “Nope. Not a monster in sight.”
Finally a smile from him. Good.
“Too bad you weren’t around when I was about eight. Most of my nightmares involved something under the bed. My mother was not amused.”
“Not just the usual monsters in the closet?” he asked.
“I’ll have you know I was a very imaginative child. My nightmares ran the gamut from ogres to trolls to creatures from outer space to headless spooks and things grabbing me from the dark.”
That came a little too close to reality, and Rachel couldn’t help the shiver that ran through her. She fought it off and managed a smile. “Well, now that you know I’m safe, you can call it quits for the day.”
Clint studied her face for a moment. Then he pulled over the desk chair and sat so that he was knee to knee with her.
“You really are safe now. No one knows where you are, and even if they did, just put the dead bolt on when I leave. But they—whoever they are—don’t know.”
She nodded, trying to project an air of confidence. “Right. I’ll be fine.” She rubbed absently at her shoulder, wincing when her fingers hit a sore spot.
He was on that at once, of course. “Hurting?”
“Just a little. Apparently my usual workout doesn’t prepare me for hanging from a rope. I feel as if I’ve been stretched out on a rack. And I must have banged against a few stones on the way up. But I got out, thanks to you.”
Before she could guess his intent, Clint leaned forward, putting a large warm hand over her shoulder. His fingers pressed lightly.
“Those muscles have so many knots it’s a wonder you can lift your arms. You need some liniment.”
“I don’t think the hotel stocks that in the minibar.” The words were slightly breathless. He was massaging both shoulders now, his hands moving with the gentlest of pressure, smoothing and warming. Impossible not to relax, yielding to the touch.
She shouldn’t. Say something, anything, before he guesses how it makes you feel. “I actually do have a massage therapist, but I don’t suppose you’d like for me to go see her.”
“You suppose right.” His fingers followed the taut muscle that ran up her neck and into her skull. “I had no idea teaching kindergarten was that physically taxing. Are those little kids rough on you?”
“You try getting down to the floor and up again a hundred times a day and see how it makes you feel.”
His lips twitched again. “As I recall, my kindergarten teacher sat behind her desk all day. If she wanted to see one of us, we went to her.”
“Old school,” she said. “We don’t teach that way anymore.”
“I guess I have a lot to learn about it.”
“Your work doesn’t involve you with many kindergarten teachers, I would think.” Keep it light, she reminded herself.
“Not many, no. But I’m always interested in learning something new.”
“I could lend you a book on the theory of teaching young children,” she offered. “Well, I could, if I had access to my own house.”
His hands paused. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think we can justify keeping you away from home much longer. Especially if Attwood closes our investigation.”
“Will he really do that? Without ever knowing?”
Clint shrugged, his eyes shadowed. “It’s not what we want, but he’s the client.” He hesitated, his mind seeming far away for a moment. “You know, what you need when you go home is a dog.”
“A guard dog? I can’t keep a big dog in that small house when I’m out all day.” That was assuming she had a job left to go to when this was over.
“It doesn’t have to be a big dog. Just one with a loud bark. You could even borrow Buster for a while.”
She smiled, relaxing into an almost mindless pleasure at his gentle touch smoothing the tension away. “I doubt the Bartons could do without him.”
“Maybe not.” He smiled in return. Then his eyes seemed to darken, and she could feel the touch of his gaze on her face just as clearly as she felt the warmth of his hands.
She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move. This is a bad idea, some part of her mind insisted. Then his lips covered hers, silencing the thought.
This time the kiss was slow, gentle, almost questioning, then deepening when she responded. He drew her close, and she wrapped her arms around him, not thinking, only feeling.
When, finally, he drew back, he was smiling a little ruefully. “I don’t think I can apologize,” he murmured. “But it’s bad timing, I know.”
“Yes, it is.” But some part of her wished he had swept his scruples aside. “One thing is sure... I won’t be having any nightmares tonight.”
He touched her face lightly and slid his chair back. “Glad to know that.”
“It’s important,” she insisted, trying to cover her feelings with something light. “You wouldn’t know, of course. I’m sure if a monster invaded your dreams, you’d just walk right over it.”
His face tightened, his eyes darkening again, but with pain, not desire.
Rachel’s breath caught. She’d hurt him. All unaware, she tramped on something he wasn’t willing to admit. Something painful, hiding behind his indomitable facade.
Clint stood, glancing around as if to be sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. “I’d better get going.”
“Yes, of course.” She pulled herself together. “Thanks for... Well, thanks.”
He nodded, striding to the door. Just as he reached for the handle, she thought of something.
“When you have a chance, could you pick up my cell phone for me? It’s in the closet at my house, tucked inside a boot. I know, you don’t want me to call anyone, but I’d like to see what messages I have.”
“Yes, fine.” He yanked the door open. “I’ll get it.” The door closed, and he was gone.
* * *
WHEN CLINT PICKED Rachel up the next morning, he had a couple of concerns on his mind. The first was the question of whether or not to let her move back to her house, not that he could stop her if she was as determined as she’d sounded on the phone earlier. And the second was whether or not he should come clean about the fact that he’d already had her cell phone when she asked for it, and that Logan had searched it for any telltale information.
There hadn’t been any. He hadn’t expected it. Rachel had been honest with them. He suspected honesty was her default setting, but that it could become snarled when it came into conflict with her sense of loyalty.
As far as he was concerned, Paul Hartline was a loser who’d never deserved a woman like Rachel. Not that anyone wou
ld ask for his opinion on the subject.
Shelving the question of what to say about the cell phone, he held the door while she slid into the seat. She seemed in a brighter mood this morning. He considered asking her if her sleep had been free of nightmares, but decided not to push his luck. That subject went a little too close to his own nightmares, and he had no intention of sharing them with anyone.
Rachel was looking at him when he got behind the wheel. “I hope you realize I only agreed to yet another search of my house because I want to get back in it. What could there possibly be left for you to find? And I feel quite sure you had a look around after I turned up missing.”
She didn’t sound annoyed, so he risked treating it lightly. “Can you blame me? One minute you were insisting you didn’t know anything about Paul’s misdeeds, and the next you’d run away.”
“Don’t forget the fact that I went to a lot of trouble making sure you couldn’t find me.” She sounded as if she were scoring a point, and he grinned.
“I did find you,” he reminded her.
“Only because your partner conned my mother. Isn’t that against the law?”
He lifted both hands in a momentary sketch of surrender. “Turn me in, why don’t you?”
“I’ll let it pass this time.”
“As it was, I nearly got caught by your helpful neighbors. They seemed to be looking out for you.”
“They’re nice people.” She smiled. “I always think they look like a set of Santa and Mrs. Claus figurines I had when I was little.”
“That’s it,” he said. “I wondered who they reminded me of.”
The lightness seemed to last, for a time at least. He wondered what she was thinking. She was leaning forward as he took the route that led to West Chester. Eager to get back to her home? Obviously it meant a lot to her.
But she was going to sell. He’d nearly forgotten her mention of the reason she’d met her ex to begin with that day. She’d been trying to get him to sign off on a sales agreement.
He glanced at her again. Why? Money? Her salary might not be enough to pay the mortgage. Or she might be reluctant to continue living in a place where, presumably, she’d once been happy.
That was like biting on a sore spot. Maybe Rachel didn’t want the reminder of her ex. Maybe a lot of reasons, none of which were his business. But he’d liked that little house of hers. It had a sense of home about it that he’d missed in the last few years. A man could be happy in a place like that...as long as it came with the right woman.
“You’re very quiet all of a sudden,” Rachel said. “Are you worried? Or did something new turn up about Paul?” Her voice sharpened on the second question.
“There’s nothing new.” He hesitated for a moment, and then decided to level with her. “There is a reason for wanting to search your place with you there.”
Her eyes grew wary. “What?”
“I’m hoping going through your belongings may trigger a hint of where Paul might go if he needed a place to hole up. Or where he might think to hide something small if he didn’t want to carry it around with him.”
“The flash drive.” The wariness faded. “But I thought, from what Attwood said, that he wasn’t concerned about the flash drive any longer. He seemed to think that program had some problem.”
“That’s what he said.”
“Don’t you believe him?” She sounded as if the thought had never occurred to her.
“I don’t have any particular reason to think he wasn’t telling the truth,” he said, careful not to plant any suspicion when he didn’t have proof. “But we were hired to recover that flash drive, and if I start something, I have a duty to finish it. And when it comes to Attwood...as an investigator, I’m inclined to doubt everyone until I have good reason not to.”
Rachel was silent for a moment. “That’s not a necessary qualification for a kindergarten teacher.”
“Good.” His lips twitched a little. “I’d hate to think you were cross-examining five-year-olds.”
But she didn’t smile in return. What was she thinking?
“Do you still doubt me?” She didn’t seem angry, which he might have expected after what passed between them the previous night. But in any event, he owed her the truth about that.
“No.” He glanced at her to make sure she believed him. “I know you now. Maybe that’s one positive thing that came from tracking you down. I know you well enough to be convinced you’re innocent of any connection with what Paul did.”
“Thank you.” The words were a soft murmur.
As for whatever remaining loyalty she might have toward Paul...well, he couldn’t see that affecting the case at all, except to cause her added grief if Paul ended up in jail. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. That aspect of it wasn’t remotely fair, but he didn’t see what he could do about it. He admired the conviction that would make her sacrifice the work she loved rather than bring possible harm to the school. If he could spare her that decision...
“Is something wrong?” she said.
He realized he’d been silent too long and let his face reflect his feelings. He didn’t ordinarily allow that, but his usual rules didn’t seem to apply when it came to Rachel.
“Just hoping you won’t be too upset when you see your house. That last searcher must have been in a bad mood.” That really was enough to make him grim.
“I’ll soon see, won’t I?” She said the words lightly, but her hands were clasped tightly in her lap.
A few minutes later he was pulling into the driveway. Rachel slipped out quickly, and he hurried to catch up with her before she opened the door.
His presence didn’t help. She winced when she stepped into the living room, her breath going out as if she’d been punched in the stomach.
“I’m sorry. I’d have tried to clean it up, but if we’d had to call in the police, that would cause more problems.”
“I know.” Rachel blinked rapidly, probably trying to prevent any tears from spilling over. “I thought I was ready for it, but hearing about it isn’t like seeing it.”
He stooped to grab a lamp table that looked as if it had been tossed across the room. “I’m afraid the lamp is a lost cause.”
Rachel stared at the shattered glass globe. Then she straightened. “I’d like to sweep up the glass before we do any searching. I don’t want broken glass ground into the carpet.”
“Right. We may as well straighten as we go. That’ll help you see if anything is missing.”
It might also help her in the event she was determined to stay here tonight, and he couldn’t convince her otherwise. He didn’t really have the right to keep her away, little though he liked admitting it, but he could probably convince her to take some safety precautions first—dead bolts on the doors, at the very least.
Of course, the damage might put her off so much that she felt she couldn’t bear to come back ever, but he didn’t think she’d give in to what she’d see as weakness.
Rachel went to the kitchen and came back with a broom, dustpan and small electric sweeper. He took the broom and dustpan from her hands and knelt to pick up the biggest pieces first before trying to sweep.
“Funny.” Her voice didn’t sound as if she saw anything humorous. “I thought maybe seeing it like this would make me less upset about the necessity of selling. It doesn’t. It just makes me want to fix it all up again, the way I did when we bought it.”
He looked up at her, hands pausing. “I wondered if you felt it was too painful to go on living here after the divorce.”
Rachel actually seemed startled at the idea. “Money,” she said crisply. “If I could afford the mortgage payments, I wouldn’t let the house go for anything. It was my first real home.”
After meeting her grandparents and learning about the life she’d lived with her mother, he could understand her feeling. A h
ome of her own was more important to Rachel than it might be to people like him, who’d launched their lives from a solid family base. And he had begun to feel the yearning for a real home—at least since he’d met Rachel.
He carried the lamp remains to the trash bin in the kitchen. When he returned, she’d finished vacuuming the carpet and was restoring the drawer to the lamp table.
“Is everything you normally keep in that drawer there?” He picked up a handful of coasters.
She nodded, replacing the coasters, a notepad and a couple of pens to the drawer. “When you asked about my feelings for the house—were you picturing Paul and me planning the decorating or painting the walls together? That never happened.”
“You were the one with the paint brush, I take it.”
“I’m not bad with a paint roller, either.” She was making a visible effort to sound at ease. “I loved every minute of decorating this place. Picking the colors, waiting until I’d saved enough to get just the right lamp...” She glanced ruefully at the spot where the lamp used to be.
“You wouldn’t care for my preferred style of interior design, I’m afraid.” He wanted to take that sadness from her face.
“Why? What do you like? Danish modern pale wood? Or shiny chrome and black leather?”
“It’s more like Early Gym Classic. I have an exercise bike for television watching and a weight bench complete with a full set of weights.”
That brought a smile to her face. “I gather you don’t entertain very much.”
“It’s not as bad as all that. If I have anyone over, the weight bench can double as a coffee table.”
“Genius,” she said solemnly. “I admire pieces that can do double duty.”
He grinned. “I can tell.”
“Is there no lady in your life to object to your furnishing style?”
“No, not now. There’s never been anyone serious enough that I take decorating advice from, anyway.”
He looked at Rachel, and for an instant he felt again the upsurge of desire that had overcome him the previous night. Maybe she felt it, too, because she turned away instantly.
“We’d better get on with the search, although I don’t think there’s anything in here that would give us a clue.” Her tone had become brisk.
