Somebody had made a complaint.
Just thinking about Marsh’s reaction to that fiasco made her squirm. Her boss was a perfectionist and expected the best from his agents, but she wasn’t his agent anymore, she reminded herself, she was on her own now.
Sipping hot sweet tea from a bone china mug, she controlled her irritation.
In his forties, with a florid complexion and a belly that strained over the thick belt of his washed-out khaki trousers, Sheriff Talbot had black hair liberally sprinkled with gray and light brown eyes that turned golden in the sunshine. Shorter than Elizabeth by a head, he wore his revolver on his hip like a man with a Napoleon complex.
Elizabeth ground her teeth in order to stop herself from finishing his sentences. And he took notes like a schoolboy, long torturous notes that had her repeating herself a hundred times. If she’d been working with him, she would have pointed out the advantages of a digital voice-recorder, but it wasn’t her problem.
Feck.
“So you’re from New York City, Miss Reed?”
That was the third time he’d asked her that question and she itched with the desire to call him on it, but at least she wasn’t feeling like a victim. She was totally pissed.
“That’s right, Sheriff,” she replied with a smile, unconsciously flexing her fists. “Need me to spell it for you?”
He hesitated, looked up from his notes.
“Well, ma’am,” there it was again, that long pause for no earthly reason, “I can see why these questions might seem like a waste of time to you, but...” he paused for another long breath and she held back a groan, “...that’s just the way we work around here.” He smiled at her, almost in slow motion.
She held his gaze and forced herself to smile back while he jotted something down in his little book. She craned her head, desperately wanting to see what he wrote.
“You got an address for me, ma’am?”
A false one on Staten Island rolled off her tongue. She released a pent-up breath and placed her cup carefully on the coffee table. Mistake number one. Like a nervous suspect she’d blown it.
She got up and began to pace.
Didn’t matter that she’d told him what had happened three times already. He just kept on at her like a damned...cop.
“You sure you handled those boys all by yourself?” Talbot scratched his head with his pen. “I mean we’ve got a report of a broken nose, broken fingers, concussion, dislocated shoulder. You did all that?”
Was he going to press charges? Then suddenly she saw it—he wasn’t out to get her. He was after Cal, or Nat. Eyes narrowing, she stared him down. He’d figured she wasn’t capable of taking on a couple of goons and she was taking the rap to keep Cal out of prison.
“Is Cal Landon still on parole?” Eliza enquired, her voice as hard as flint.
Sheriff shook his head slowly. “No, ma’am.”
“You should be asking those bastards why they attacked an innocent man minding his business in a bar.”
“Now, I wouldn’t exactly call Cal Landon an innocent,” the sheriff broke in with a chuckle.
“And you can ask all those so called witnesses why they did nothing to help a man who could have been beaten to death.”
Small town justice sucked.
The justice system sucked, period.
The sheriff seemed unfazed by her anger. He offered her a piece of gum before he popped a piece into his own chubby mouth. “You wanna make a complaint, Miss Reed?”
“This is your town, Sheriff. You deal with it.” Heat burned along her cheekbones and she compressed her lips angrily.
Tilting his head to one side he appeared to consider her answer before nodding. “That’s right, ma’am, something you’d do well to remember yourself.” His tone went stiff for a moment, just long enough for Elizabeth to reassess Sheriff Talbot’s tedious probing.
They held each other’s gaze for two interminable seconds before she conceded the point with a cheerless nod.
“You’re staying at the Triple H for another couple of weeks, right?” he asked, getting awkwardly to his feet.
Elizabeth nodded. She had to leave sooner rather than later now, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.
“Well, ma’am, as they say in the movies, ‘don’t leave town’ without talking to me first, now will ya?” The drawl was still languid and easy, but Elizabeth recognized the tougher steel beneath it.
She smiled sweetly, knew she didn’t fox him for an instant. “No, sir, Sheriff.”
“Would you mind asking Doc Sullivan to come on in here for a minute, ma’am?” He continued to labor over his notes and she breathed a sigh of relief, escaping as quickly as she could.
***
Nat woke to the faint buzz of the TV. After being up all night, he’d fallen asleep on the couch in the family room waiting to talk to the sheriff. It was obvious from the settled hush of the house that Talbot was long gone and the place seemed empty.
A news channel droned on, and he knew he really should go to bed and get a few more hours of rest before he got back to work.
“Today, seventeen alleged members of the Bilotti crime-family were indicted in front of the grand jury on multiple counts under the 1970 ‘Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations’ act, RICO for short. The Bilotti crime-family is reputed to be the largest Mafia family currently operating in the US.”
Like he cared. The Mafia was about as far removed from Montana, as Brazil was from Iceland.
The dignified, gray-haired newscaster continued in a gravelly voice. “Those indicted today include Julian Galliano, the so-called ‘Godfather’ of the Bilotti crime-family.” A picture of an old man with a large nose hit the screen, followed by pictures of several other well-dressed middle-aged men.
“John-Paul Mallena, nicknamed ‘The Lion’ and considered by the FBI to be the second-in-command, was also indicted and is being held without bail at a federal facility here in Manhattan.”
The newscaster paused dramatically as Nat stretched out his limbs—thank God the foaling had gone well last night. He smiled thinking about the smart purebred Arabian filly who’d all but pranced out of the womb. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Better check her.
“If successful at trial, the FBI will have dealt a crushing blow to organized-crime here in NYC. This is the biggest operation since 1991, when John Gotti, head of the Gambino crime-family, was sentenced to life without parole, along with dozens of his associates.”
Behind the newscaster’s rigidly coifed, poised head, the picture of another man appeared. This time the face was younger with pale eyes and Italian good looks.
Nat put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes for a moment longer.
“The indictments follow the arrest of Andrew DeLattio on charges of insider-dealing and money laundering. Mr. DeLattio is a stockbroker on Wall St. and is also the nephew of John-Paul Mallena. FBI officials refuse to say whether the cases are connected.”
The newscaster droned on. “Police are still looking for a former girlfriend of Mr. DeLattio. Miss Juliette Morgan disappeared three weeks ago.” The anchorman looked soberly into the camera. “Fears are growing for Ms. Morgan’s safety following rumors that she provided key evidence against the Bilotti family. Ms. Morgan was herself accused of switching valuable pieces of artwork with quality forgeries.”
“I’ve no comment,” said a voice on the TV. Nat sat bolt upright on the couch and stared at the screen. The voice was unmistakable—a soft Irish lilt with East Coast vowels.
Eliza’s voice.
The footage switched to a lithe figure clad in black emerging from a large municipal building. The tall redhead was squeezed between four dark suits, and despite the cold and the gloom, wore sunglasses to hide her eyes.
The redhead flicked a single irritated glance at the cameras and then, chin held high, eyes staring straight ahead, she walked to the waiting limo without another word.
“There you can see Ms. Morgan leaving the Distric
t attorney’s office three weeks ago, guarded by four federal officials. She hasn’t been seen since.”
Damn.
What the hell was going on?
***
Elizabeth made a real effort. She wore a dress—black, round-necked, with three-quarter length sleeves—that reached half way down her calves.
Understated.
It was also soft and clingy, revealing the curves she’d so far hidden beneath big shirts and thick coats.
Understated, but sexy.
Not that Nat noticed—there was a sternness to the set of his jaw as he loaded the wood-stove, a seriousness to his expression that reflected her inner thoughts. Absently, she smoothed the material along her thigh, watched his competent hands handle the logs with strength and economy, his mind seemingly absorbed by the task.
The smell of coffee mingled with the acrid taint of wood smoke and brought the down-home feel all the closer. She lifted her mug to her lips and took a sip of the bitter brew.
Van Morrison crooned in the background.
Nat hadn’t said much since he’d walked in the door, but she was the one who needed to do the talking.
“There’s no chance of getting enough money to pay off the loan without selling that land?” Okay, so she was avoiding the issue.
Nat’s hand slowed and paused. He stared down at the wooden floor as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at her.
“Nope,” he said, voice tight.
“I’ve got money,” Elizabeth offered. She put her coffee mug down on a side-table and took a step forward. He frowned at her, but she carried on regardless. It would be nice to do something for the Sullivans before she left.
And she had to leave.
Nat’s laser blue eyes told her to back off, but he didn’t say the words. His lips were drawn into a hard, straight line, his chin jutted out at a stubborn angle.
Elizabeth was getting nowhere. She pulled her hair back from her face, out of her eyes and knew she should give it up, but she also knew that she could help, because one thing she did have was money and the Sullivans needed a sponsor.
“I could,” she hesitated, wary of the cold light that entered his eyes, “...you know, lend you some, until you’re back on your feet.” The Sullivans could have it with bells on as far as Elizabeth was concerned.
“No.” His lips were tight. “Thank you,” was forced out, cold and sharp between his teeth.
“Why not?” Bravely, she went towards him. “I want to help.”
As she got close, he stood up, wiped his hands on his jeans, his face a remote, hard mask that she didn’t recognize.
“Where’d you get the money, Eliza?” A muscle jumped along his jaw. “I didn’t realize law enforcement paid so well.”
Panic fluttered along her nerves, her feet began to backtrack.
“I inherited it.” She lifted her chin and stopped moving, determined to do this right. Reaching out, she touched his arm, but he was as responsive as steel.
Blue eyes were glacial—fascinating to watch—even though their inexplicable coldness punched her panic button with a quick one-two.
“I don’t want your goddamned money,” Nat snarled and advanced towards her.
Backing up fast, her heart sped up as fear clawed all the way up her throat.
THIRTEEN
Anger tightened like a bowstring in his mind and then snapped like a bone. Narrowing his eyes, fury burned bright and resonant, scorching rational thought. When she backed up, he followed, livid that she’d lied to him, pissed that he’d fallen for both the lies and the woman. It wasn’t the first time he’d been blinded by a pretty face.
He corralled her up against the couch, planted both hands on his hips and bared his teeth in a snarl. “Where’d you get the money?”
“I told you, I inherited it—”
“Don’t lie to me!” Nat roared, “I saw you on fucking CNN. They think the Mafia killed you. Does that make it easier to get away with your little art scam?” Bitterness edged his voice, a sense of loss merging with the anger. He took a deep shuddering breath. “You enjoy stringing me along with your little mind games?”
Green eyes were huge in her pale face and she shook her head, whipping her hair across her cheeks. It took him a moment to recognize stark, vivid terror.
Terror aimed at him.
It shook him—knocked the breath right out of him. Anger crashed in a wave and he tried to grab her shoulders, wanting to tell her it didn’t matter, that he didn’t care, but she flinched, panicked and fell back. She scrambled away from him and then squeezed into a tight ball.
He inched toward her, but she shrieked, “Don’t touch me!” And he stood still, breathing heavily and frowning.
She’d screamed don’t touch me the first time they’d kissed. What had happened to her?
“It’s okay, honey. Look.” He held up his hands. “I don’t care what you’ve done. I’m not going to hurt you.” His tone was gentle and he hoped soothing. She cowered in the corner of the couch like a whipped dog, and it didn’t make any sense. After seeing her on the news and in that bar fight, he’d figured she’d have gone nose-to-nose with anybody without backing down an inch.
Obviously, he’d been wrong.
Walking over to the fireplace, he gave her time and space to get herself together. He wanted to haul her into his arms and comfort her, but knew it was too soon to touch her.
He’d never raised a hand to a woman in his life, had never even considered it. But some bastard had. Nat tried to hide the dismay that burned like an ulcer in the pit of his stomach. Man, he’d like to get his hands on that bastard.
“I saw you on television, Eliza.” Frustrated, he propped his hand against the wall, scrubbed the other hand over his face. “I recognized your voice and I wanted to know what was going on, but I sure as hell would never hurt you.”
He followed her with his eyes, stayed perfectly still as she got up and turned off the music with a click that left the room in booming silence.
She spoke in a flat voice, devoid of emotion. “I used to work undercover for the FBI. The art forgery story the press reported was part of my deep cover background that we—the FBI—put together, designed to draw in the crooks. Even though I resigned from the bureau they can’t reveal I was an undercover agent because it might jeopardize the other operatives I worked with.”
The FBI...Jesus, it sounded crazy but...it fit.
“Okay...” Nat paused and looked for any hint of subterfuge, didn’t see anything but naked hurt. “So where did you get the money?”
A brittle burst of laughter splintered into a sigh of resignation. “What does it matter?”
Fear began to sink in. Fear that he might have crossed a line he hadn’t even known existed. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.” He walked slowly towards her, “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He lifted a hand to touch her cheek, but she jerked away.
“You didn’t scare me, Nat.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I did that all by myself.” She lifted her head and met his gaze head-on, eyes narrowed in warning, voice still trembling.
“There’s something else you should know. I was raped. In New York. I was raped and I’m not good at any of this anymore.”
He closed his eyes and forced himself to stand very still. Regret poured through his veins that he hadn’t been there to protect her, along with fury so potent it blasted his mind. That someone had used her that way, injured her that way, ripped at him. He’d suspected the worst. Shit, she slept with a loaded gun under her pillow. Swallowing hard, he blinked away the tears that burned the edge of his vision. He’d hoped he’d been mistaken...
But he hadn’t been mistaken.
Not looking at him, she stared down at her hands fisted in front of her. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk about it. You just have to leave.”
Eliza was fighting to control her emotions. He wanted to pull her close, comfort her against his chest and hold her safe, make everything better, but rage simmered w
ithin him and he knew if he stayed it would spew out like lava and probably scare her.
She didn’t need that.
Gently he reached out and rubbed a strand of her dark hair between his thumb and forefinger. It felt like raw silk against his rough skin, and nearly made him choke with wanting.
“What’s your real name?” he asked softly. He needed to know.
“I never lied to you about the important things.” She glanced up, unshed tears sparkling in her eyes. “My mother called me Eliza.”
He took a half step toward her, but she held out her palm to stop him.
“Please go,” she said.
He started to protest, gave up when he realized it was useless. She needed time alone, and hell, he needed time to think. He’d screwed up badly, should never have raised his voice to her, no matter how pissed he was. A burst of panic shot through him, but he resolutely crushed it. He’d make it right somehow, but not now. The barriers she’d thrown up would take more than a few careful words to penetrate.
Picking up his hat and old suede jacket, he paused. “I’m sorry. Sorry for yelling, sorry for being a jackass and real sorry about what happened to you, Eliza.” There was nothing he could do or say that would heal the wounds, but he needed her to know. “It doesn’t change the fact that I still want to hold you, but I guess it does mean I’ll back off, until you tell me it’s okay.”
She didn’t look at him, just stared down at her hands twisting the gold signet ring she wore on her pinkie—as unreachable and isolated as a granite mountaintop.
Walking out the doorway, Nat stood outside the cottage, uncertain and dazed. Before he could change his mind he heard the lock turn and the deadbolt slide into place. Placing the flat of his hand against the smooth surface of the door, he leaned against it.
She didn’t want him.
And he couldn’t blame her.
Rage stole through his system at the thought of someone hurting her, making it hard to breathe. His hands tensed into useless fists that clenched and unclenched at his side. The silver moon rode high and proud in the night sky and he wanted to kick himself. If she ever spoke to him again—and that was a big if—he wanted her not to cower with fear if his voice rose a couple of decibels. And she was going to learn to trust him enough to tell him all the bad stuff, all the hurt and all the secrets.
Crimes of Passion Page 46
