by Debra Dixon
“That big old house she loves” was a white gothic—the kind of house with a square room at the top like the pilot house on a steamboat and ornate trim. A gallery wrapped around the second floor as well as the first. Every light in the place was on. A few oval windows spilled colored light through stained glass.
Ancient and unpruned magnolia trees rose from the ground to the left of the house. They formed a shield that almost hid the field and old barn from view. Or almost hid Maggie’s house from the field. Beau wasn’t certain which property the magnolias protected.
This wasn’t the home he had envisioned for Maggie. It wasn’t nearly modern enough and much too big for one person. Upkeep and the mortgage had to take every dime she made. Beau pulled into the drive, gravel crunching beneath the wheels as he eased up behind the flirty little sports car. The red convertible Mustang was a speeding ticket waiting to happen and exactly what he had expected Maggie to drive. She had the hair for it.
Looking at the car and then the house, Beau decided that nurses made more money than he thought. Or property on River Road was cheaper than he thought.
Beau killed the engine and scooped up the manila envelope on the seat next to him. Getting her statement signed was his excuse for knocking on her door. Not that he needed an excuse, but he was experienced enough to know she wasn’t going to invite him in without a reason. And he wanted that invitation.
As he slid out of the car, a curtain in one of the front rooms drifted open an inch. Maggie was definitely home, and she knew he was here. Despite the rain soaking his clothes, Beau stared straight at the window, letting her get a good look before he slammed the door. The curtain finally dropped when he headed for the porch.
By the time he climbed the steps, the rattle of a chain and clunk of a dead bolt mechanism reached his ears. He waited patiently on the edge of the porch, out of the rain but not too close to the door. The pause between unlocking and opening it stretched so long, Beau wondered if she’d changed her mind. Then, with a whoosh, the door swung back.
A screen door still separated them, but Maggie’s silhouette had the same effect on him now that her body in broad daylight had had on the whole squad room. It redirected his thoughts from taking care of business to thoughts of touching her.
Didn’t the woman own decent clothes?
Her short overalls were so faded and worn that he knew they’d feel like old flannel beneath his hands. Her shoulders were bare beneath the wide denim straps. No, they weren’t, he realized. Thin spaghetti straps for some sort of skimpy, low-cut top were barely visible to the side of the denim straps.
“Let me guess,” she said, one hand in her pocket and the other still on the doorknob. “You were in the neighborhood?”
Maybe someone else might have missed the tightness in her voice, the tiniest hint of rigid control. But Beau didn’t miss it, and that’s when he knew. Maggie wasn’t going to have an explanation for the polygraph irregularity, no funny, smart-ass story of why she hesitated on that question. She was worried. Probably praying he hadn’t found out about the test yet and wondering what he intended to do about it.
Nothing, Maggie. Absolutely nothing, he decided. At least not tonight. He already had the answer he’d come for, but it wasn’t the one he’d been hoping to get.
Motioning with the damp manila envelope, he said, “I got tied up in court and missed you at the hospital. I wanted to get the statement signed and out of the way tonight.”
Maggie glanced at her watch. “Nine o’clock’s a little late even for you to be working.” She looked up with a speculative glint in her eye, and he knew she was about to push his buttons again. “But then I guess the devil’s work is never done.”
“You sure are quick with that mouth, Maggie. Are you as quick with a pen?” Stepping closer, he offered the envelope. “You may want to read it first. I can wait out here if you’d like.”
Maggie realized his offer to stay outside was a not-so-subtle hint to invite him in, and she balked. Having him in her home felt like letting a hungry wolf in with the sheep and hoping he wouldn’t eat too much. It was impossible to know if she should or shouldn’t. Her judgment was shot. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep for three days. She was afraid to sleep. Afraid to dream.
And afraid to spend any time alone with the man on her doorstep.
Whatever drove Grayson to venture out of the city tonight, it wasn’t to get the statement signed. No, he wanted something else entirely, and he was playing this little game to get it. She just didn’t know what “it” was. Nor could she guess from his poker face if he’d seen the results of the polygraph.
As he said this morning, she was damned if she did and damned if she didn’t. Opening the screen door, she took the envelope and called his bluff. “You didn’t need this tonight.”
“No, I didn’t,” he admitted easily. “But I don’t like loose ends.”
Hairs prickled on the back of Maggie’s neck at the way his voice dropped almost to a whisper. At the way he caught the screen to keep it from closing. The palm tree tie and the gun were missing. His sleeves were rolled up, but he wasn’t off duty. The badge was still clipped to his belt. And to his soul, if she were any judge of character.
Maggie remembered one of the few pieces of advice her mother had ever given her. Advice had always seemed to come when Mama was breaking up with whichever man paid the rent, and her advice was usually followed by an order to pack the suitcases. At barely eight years old Maggie hadn’t understood most of the warnings, but this particular one made perfect sense now.
Run like hell from a man like that, baby. You can’t lie to him, and you can’t cheat on him.
It was too late to run. She had nowhere to hide. Nothing to do but see it through—something her mother had never done. Maggie used her memories of her mother as a moral compass. If Mama pointed south, Maggie went north.
“You’re wet,” she finally said.
He shoved a hand through his hair, slicking it back into place. “Occupational hazard.”
Fiddling with the brads on the envelope, Maggie moved away from the door. “Look, I’m not a fast reader. You better come in, Mr. Grayson. I-I’ll get you a towel. And a pen.”
“The name’s Beau,” he told her and crossed the threshold, taking care to stand on the vestibule rug. “Don’t go to any trouble on my account.”
“It’s a little late to worry about making trouble, don’t you think? Especially when you’ve come all this way to investigate what your prime suspect is”—she made quotation marks with her free hand—“really like. So here we are. The air conditioner’s broken, and the living room’s that way. Don’t hold it against me.”
Beau watched her disappear around a corner, presumably to get a towel. The lack of air-conditioning explained her propensity for skimpy clothing, but when he turned his head in the direction she’d pointed, he wasn’t certain what to make of the living room. Maggie was neither a decorator nor a housekeeper.
Muddy sheets were thrown over two couches that faced each other. Stacked on the floor, on end tables, around the hearth, and on the coffee table were books and magazines. The corners jutted out at odd angles as if the material was constantly being sorted through and haphazardly restacked. Bits of paper marking places stuck out of the pages.
Beau wove his way through the maze, trying to get a feel for her reading tastes. They surprised him. The room was filled with travel guides, National Geographic magazines, history books, and how- to books for sailing around the world, mountain climbing, and do-it-yourself safaris. Intrigued, he hunkered down beside a stack near the fireplace, but the smell of smoke distracted him.
Fresh smoke.
Twisting toward the hearth, he wondered why someone with a broken air conditioner would want to start a fire in July. Without wood. The unusual always got his attention. There weren’t any coals, no charred pieces of wood in the fireplace. Just the curled gray ash remains of some papers, which had obviously been laid on the grate and set
on fire.
He leaned and held his hand close to the ashes, checking for heat coming off the firebrick or the grate. None, but then he didn’t really expect any. He’d love to know exactly what Maggie had burned. Journal pages? Wouldn’t that be convenient timing. And smart if she’d written more than she should.
Getting the charred paper out and reconstituting it was tricky, but it could be done. He had the fixing spray in the car trunk with his gear. He had a guy at the state crime lab who could flatten it and develop an image on photographic paper, but without a search warrant Beau couldn’t take anything. Unless it was in plain sight and obviously incriminating.
Damn.
Women loved to wipe the slate clean by burning things—old love letters, mementos, anything that reminded them of who or what they wanted to forget. The problem with burning your memories was that you could never get them back. What did you burn, Maggie? What do you want to forget?
He heard footsteps in the hall, and he started to twist back to the books when an unburned scrap by the leg of the grate caught his eye, It was the printed corner of something, charred only on the edge. Beau didn’t bother to examine it. Reflex took over. He simply grabbed it and put it in his shirt pocket as he reached for a book and pretended to read, his back still to the archway.
He noticed ashes on his fingers and pocket. Surreptitiously he slipped the fingers in the crook of his knee and twisted a couple of times as he pulled them out. It’d have to do. The pocket would have to wait.
“You’ve got some hobby here, Mag—”
Beau froze as a hot, dry puff of air brushed his neck, accompanied by a soft and serious growl. Every hair on his head stood straight up. Silently he tried to calculate how big the dog had to be if it was breathing down his neck, but gave up because he didn’t like the answer.
“Nice doggie,” he crooned. The growl escalated. Beau shut up and willed Maggie to hurry.
Moving his head only a quarter inch at a time, he tried to get a look at his problem. When the largest set of canines he’d ever seen came into view, Beau felt the color drain from his face.
“Gwendolyn, no! Don’t eat the man.” Maggie’s voice had never been so welcome, even when she added, “He’ll give you indigestion.”
If Beau hadn’t feared for his life, he might have laughed. As it was, he was in no mood for humor. Killer-dog Gwendolyn relaxed as swiftly as if Maggie had flipped a switch. The hell hound abandoned her snarling and gave him a gentle nudge with her nose, which Beau took to be an apology and offer of friendship. He wisely accepted, flicked the ashes off his shirt, and stood up very slowly.
When he turned, he couldn’t keep the awe out of his voice. “Jesus! What is that?”
Gwendolyn was at least three feet tall at the shoulder and a good five feet long from nose to rump. Bigger than a Dane. Rough-coated, streaked with silver and gray, and with eyes so dark they were almost black. They were also incredibly expressive. Right now, she looked worried, anxious that he hadn’t truly forgiven her.
“That is an Irish wolfhound,” Maggie told him, a hint of amusement in her voice. “They’re really very sweet. Gwen’s four. Someone left her at the vet down the road when she was about six months old, and they never came back. I’ve had her since then.”
Maggie handed him the towel and scratched the top of Gwen’s head. It came almost to her shoulder. “We’ve bonded over our tragic pasts.”
“I noticed. She has your charming personality,” he said as he looped the towel around his neck and rubbed the end over his hair. “Snap first, apologize second.”
Instead of puffing up, Maggie laughed. It was more of a throaty giggle really. The unexpected sound, the way she so easily laughed at herself, coaxed an answering smile from him. For a moment there wasn’t anything between them but the joke. Then she remembered he was the enemy, and the laughter faded. She tucked it away like a secret she’d never intended to share. All that was left was awkward silence, the wariness in her eyes, and the feeling he’d been robbed.
“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you about Gwynnie.” Maggie shrugged. One of the overall straps slid off her shoulder. “She was sacked out in the kitchen chasing rabbits in her sleep when I let you in. I didn’t think she’d wake up.”
“No harm done.”
No harm done.
Maggie’s knees buckled as the phrase registered and the memory flooded in. She shut her eyes against it, tried to force it away, but it didn’t help.
“S-Sarah?”
“Oh, my God! Maggie!” Sarah spun around, wiped her eyes, and looked up at the railing, “Go back to bed, Maggie, Everything’s fine.”
“But Sarah, I heard—”
“Maggie May, don’t come down here again!” Sarah’s voice was sharp and desperate, scaring her. Sarah smiled suddenly, and Maggie knew the smile wasn’t real, “Go back to bed, sweetie. I broke my mama’s flower bowl is all, and it scared me. I’ll clean it up. No harm done. You go to bed. Okay? No harm done. Please?”
“Maggie?”
Someone was steadying her, shaking her shoulders, but her mind wouldn’t let go of the past. Please? Please? Please? The word reverberated inside her, grounding her in that night. It wasn’t like Sarah to cry or beg. It wasn’t like Sarah at all. Something was wrong. Maggie’s stomach hurt. She didn’t know what to do. Because she was ten years old, she did what Sarah asked.
Maybe everything would have been different if she hadn’t gone back to bed. Maybe—
“Maggie. It’s okay. Open your eyes. It goes away when you open your eyes.”
The hands moved gently over her shoulders, cupping her face, thumbs brushing against her cheeks. Soothing her. Her cheeks were wet. Oh, God, she realized, the hands were Beau’s. He was wiping away tears.
Maggie forced her eyes open, hoping it had all been a nasty dream. Beau’s dark gaze was only inches away. Her knees gave again, but his hands shifted from her face to her elbows, holding her up as she grabbed the front of his shirt. She felt more vulnerable, more exposed than she’d ever felt in her life.
And she couldn’t do a thing about it except hold on. She needed Beau right now. She was straddling two worlds—not really here and not with Sarah. Her hands were shaking; she was cold. The pressure in her chest was almost unbearable, and breathing wasn’t voluntary anymore. She had to concentrate so hard.
All the while she tried to sort little Maggie’s emotions from big Maggie’s terror. Losing control was her worst nightmare. Nothing and no one got to her. It was how she survived, how she kept herself whole. Years in the system had taught her that.
“It’s okay.” His voice rumbled through her, settling deep inside, anchoring her. And then it turned soft and easy, as if he had all the time in the world. As if he’d done this before. “I’m here. You’re here. It’s just us. And the rain. And Gwendolyn. We’re all here. Shh … whatever it is, it’s over. It’s over, darlin’.”
Maggie felt the prick of tears again. It wasn’t over. She was going to have to go through this again. The same memory … a different memory … it didn’t matter. A slice of that night would come sneaking in, ripping away her control, taking over her mind whether she wanted it or not. Forcing her to face the truth.
Anything could trigger it. Anything. Anyone.
Only her last scrap of pride kept her from surrendering to the urge to lean against him and let the warmth beneath her hands soak into her bones. She had the foolish notion that as long as he held her, she’d be safe. Maggie’d never had safe. Maggie had control. Or she would have as soon as she pulled herself together, repaired the damage.
“I’m fine … now,” she whispered to the top button of Beau’s shirt.
Beau barely heard her whisper, but the quiet words etched themselves on his heart all the same. He knew her eyes would write her need on his soul, but he tucked a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his anyway. He had no choice. His brain wasn’t making this decision. She closed her eyes and drew in a gulp of air as he forced her
head up. Maggie finally swept her eyes open as she exhaled.
“Is it so terrible?” he asked softly, the backs of his fingers trailing along her neck.
She swallowed. “Wh-what?”
“Being this close to the enemy.”
“You’re not—”
“Good. I’m glad.” His gaze lingered on her soft, open mouth. “I don’t kiss women who think I’m the bad guy.”
Beau waited for his words to sink in, waited for Maggie to pull away. When she didn’t, he lowered his lips to hers.
FIVE
Maggie decided she had to be crazy. Because she wanted to be kissed. That fact alone made her certifiable, but she couldn’t seem to care. All of the logic in the world faded, superseded by her need to get warm, to forget the past and what it could do to her. Maybe if she kissed Beau, she could do that. At least that’s the lie she told herself.
Until his tongue flicked against the bow of her mouth.
The touch was his brand, and a warning. This wasn’t about emotional comfort. This was about crossing the line and recognizing the sensual current that flowed between them. Neither of them could afford the risk, and neither of them could stop what was going to happen.
Silence surrounded them, holding common sense at bay. All that was left was anticipation. The unbearable certainty that she’d lost her mind. The world narrowed to a strong mouth, an unshaven jaw, and the scent of rain and musk.
Somehow his hands had moved to her shoulders, cupping them, drawing her closer. His mouth slanted across hers, and his tongue slipped deep inside. Once. Twice. Each time he withdrew, the motion pulled heat through her. Sent desire snaking through her, swirling and settling deep in her belly.
It had been so long.…
Finally her fingers curled against his hard chest and tugged his shirt, a silent admission that she wanted more. Even as her tongue tangled with his, Maggie knew Beau had managed something that would haunt her. He’d gotten her to admit she wanted him.
