“Do what?”
“Make up that cock-and-bull story of dreaming about houses and winning the lottery?”
The memory of his kiss wilted beneath his displeasure. “We had to tell them something.”
“What about the truth?” A muscle in his jaw twitched in anger. He twisted the key in the ignition with such force she feared he’d break it. “That’s always worked for me.”
She decided a strong offense was her best defense. “What harm did I do? Did I commit a crime? No. Did I save us from hours of explanation and a trip to the station? Yes. So what’s the problem?”
He shook his head and put the truck in gear. “You lied. And I went along with you. That’s the problem.”
“Look,” she said calmly, “You showed them your ID. You didn’t lie about your identity. And we haven’t broken the law.”
He pulled away from the curb and headed down the dark street, then flicked her a look she couldn’t read. “There must have been something illegal about that kiss.”
She felt her face flush with the memory. “It was just a diversion.”
“It was diverting, all right. You’re good at that, aren’t you?”
She purposely misunderstood. “Kissing?”
With a heavy sigh of frustration, he shook his head. “Diversions, deceptions. Is anything you’ve ever told me the truth?”
“Yes.” She crossed her heart and held up her right hand. “I swear that I truly detest Miss Bessie’s cinnamon rolls.”
When he laughed, she exhaled with relief.
“Now that I believe,” he said.
“So, Dick Tracy, what do we do now?”
“What any good detective on stakeout would do. We find Elissa Thorne’s address and wait there to see if she spends the night with Crutchfield.”
“What if the cops stop us again?”
“Do me a favor,” he said. “If they do, let me do the talking this time.”
She settled back into the seat and tucked the blanket around her knees. All she could think of was kissing him again.
And all the reasons why she shouldn’t.
DYLAN KNEADED the lumpy pillow with his fists, folded it in half and crammed it beneath his head. Staring at the ceiling with sleepless eyes, he thought he might as well get up, but he didn’t want to waken Jennifer, asleep in the next room.
They had returned to her lodgings at five-thirty that morning after watching Larry Crutchfield deliver Elissa Thorne to her door. No passionate embraces that trip, however. Mrs. Thorne must have been afraid her children or the neighbors would be watching. Crutchfield didn’t even get out of his car.
Upon returning to her apartment, Jennifer had offered Dylan a bed on the sofa in her living room and retired to the bedroom to catch up on the missed night’s sleep. But he hadn’t been able to close his eyes. His thoughts bounced back and forth like a ball in a tennis match. Remembering Jennifer’s unexpected kiss sent his adrenaline pumping. Then he’d recall her motives for kissing him, and his spirits would plummet. She hadn’t kissed him out of love, or even lust, but solely to mislead the Atlanta cops who’d stopped to question them. This woman could give lessons in deception to Mata Hari.
Although her motives had been ulterior, he couldn’t deny the power of that kiss. In spite of his reluctance to deceive his fellow officers, he had wanted their embrace to last forever—and then segue into something more. He’d never responded to a woman so totally. Jennifer had felt as if she’d been made for his lips, for his arms only.
Then his thoughts bounced back to her facile lies, her effortless delusions, and he wanted to hold his head and groan with frustration. How could he possibly be falling in love with a woman of whom he so thoroughly disapproved?
Because she has so many qualities you admire, his heart told him. Courage, intelligence, a sense of humor.
She’s a natural-born con artist, his intellect retorted.
“You awake?” Jennifer peered over the back of the sofa at him.
“Speak of the devil,” he murmured.
“What?” Her cheeks glowed pink, as if she’d just scrubbed them, and her tousled curls were held back by a green ribbon that matched her eyes. She smelled of soap and her distinctive honeysuckle fragrance and looked more delicious than ever, which didn’t help his morning disposition.
“Yeah, I’m awake,” he said. “What are you doing up so soon? You can’t have been asleep more than an hour.”
“I couldn’t rest,” she admitted with a smile that quirked the corners of her mouth. “I know what we need to do next.”
He knew what he wanted to do next. He wanted to kiss those luscious lips again.
“I thought I was supposed to be Dick Tracy,” he said with a fake grumble.
“You are,” she agreed sweetly, “and I’m your trusty assistant.”
He lifted himself on his elbows to push his face closer to hers. “Trusty? I’m always wondering what trouble you’ll cause next.”
Just as he was tempted to grab her, she spun away and went into the kitchen. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt that hung to her thighs and left her slender legs enticingly bare.
“We’ll have to go back to the library and get copies of news photos of Elissa Thorne,” she shouted over running water as she filled the coffeepot.
Sitting up, he dragged his fingers through his hair and tugged on his shoes, wondering how anyone could be so damned perky after only one hour’s sleep. He stood, crossed the room and watched while she made coffee. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well humor her.
“Okay, trusty assistant, once we have the pictures, then what?”
“I remember all the little out-of-the-way restaurants where Crutchfield eats. He had me make reservations for him. Usually he told me who he was taking, but sometimes he’d just say make the reservations for two, that he was meeting a client.” She flipped the switch on the coffeemaker and took mugs from the cabinet. “I figure we can divide up the list, go to the restaurants and ask the waiters if they’ve ever seen Elissa there with him.”
“But we already know he’s involved with Mrs. Thorne.” Dylan, his brain badly in need of sleep, was having trouble following her.
“But we don’t know for how long. Maybe they were frequenting one or more of those restaurants for months before Max died.”
The pieces of her explanation finally clicked into place, and he gazed at her admiringly. “You are a wonder.”
“Thanks.” She flushed with pleasure at his compliment, blushing so prettily he was seized once more with the overwhelming urge to kiss her again.
“Mind if I take a shower?” he asked.
Her expression fell. “I’m afraid I used all the hot water.”
“No problem.”
He headed for the bathroom. This morning, a long, cold shower was exactly what he needed.
SIX HOURS and eighteen restaurants later, they met back at Jennifer’s apartment.
“Any luck?” Dylan asked.
The picture of dejection, she collapsed onto the sofa, pulled off her sneakers and massaged her feet. “Zip.”
“Me neither,” he admitted in frustration. “Some remembered seeing Crutchfield and Mrs. Thorne in their restaurants, but never together.”
Jennifer stretched her bare feet in front of her and wiggled her toes. “Crutchfield must have been too smart to meet his lover in the Atlanta area. Guess he figured somebody would see them and spill the beans to Max.”
“Maybe somebody did,” Dylan suggested. “A tip-off could have been the reason for that after-hours meeting in Crutchfield’s office that got Max killed.”
“But we have no proof. And we can’t put Crutchfield behind bars without proof.”
Dylan sat in the overstuffed chair across from her and rubbed his stomach. The fast-food burrito he’d swallowed too quickly at lunchtime was attacking his insides with a jackhammer. “They had to meet somewhere. Did Crutchfield make any regular trips out of town?”
Eyes sparkling, sh
e sat up and slammed her feet to the floor. “You are brilliant!”
“Clue me in.”
“There’s this quaint bed and breakfast in Madison. Crutchfield had me make reservations for him there at least once a month. He said he had to get out of Atlanta overnight every few weeks to ‘decompress’ from the stress of work. Maybe that’s where he and Elissa had their rendezvous.”
“How far is Madison from here?”
She wrinkled her nose, apparently a habit when she was trying to remember. “It’s a straight shot east on I-20 about sixty-five miles. Takes about an hour.”
Dylan thought of his aching stomach. “Maybe a phone call would be easier.”
Shaking her head, she grinned. “You’re losing it, Dick Tracy. Can’t show the innkeepers photos over the phone.”
“You’re right. And I doubt they registered under their real names. But I have one request before we leave.”
She assumed the guarded expression he’d noted so often. “What request?”
“Do you have any antacid? My stomach’s killing me.”
Concern replaced her wariness, and she hurried into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of fast-dissolve tablets from a cabinet. He accepted them with thanks, chewed and swallowed.
Jennifer hastily pulled on her socks and sneakers. “You want me to drive until you’re feeling better?”
“I came all the way to Atlanta to track a murderer for you. I even sat all night in the cold on your behalf. But a man’s got to draw the line somewhere. I won’t let you drive my truck.”
She pretended to be hurt. “You Southern boys are all alike. Guess I’m just lucky you didn’t bring your huntin’ dog to sleep on my sofa with you.”
He thought of all the country songs he’d heard with lyrics about a man’s truck and his dogs. Most songs contained another key ingredient—a broken heart. And Jennifer Reid had all the qualifications of a heartbreaker. Good looks, sex appeal and a propensity for avoiding the truth. He had to keep on his guard if he wanted to return to Casey’s Cove with his heart intact.
AFTER A DRIVE of just over an hour, they reached the small town of Madison with its charming streets of antebellum and Victorian houses. The bed and breakfast sat on a hill outside town, looking like a movie set for Gone with the Wind. A winding road between towering pecan trees led to the three-story house. Its white columns and clapboards were covered with a creeping vine singed scarlet by frost, and drifts of golden leaves from the ancient maples and hickories dappled the lawn. Rows of rocking chairs graced the wide front porch, and lamps glowed from every window to welcome guests in the late-afternoon gloom.
Dylan parked the truck in a lot shielded from the house by a hedge of evergreens. Several cars and sport utility vehicles filled the spaces. He hopped from the truck and opened Jennifer’s door.
“Looks like this place does a booming business,” he said with a nod toward the crowded lot.
“Let’s hope they haven’t had so many guests they can’t identify Crutchfield and Mrs. Thorne.”
Their feet crunched on the gravel surface until they reached the brick path that led to wide double doors at the entrance. Garlands of fall leaves, dried corn husks and Indian corn tied with gold velvet bows decorated the doors and windows of the first floor. The faint strains of a string quartet emanated from the building.
As they reached the entrance, the doors opened and a balding, middle-aged man dressed in a plaid shirt, beige slacks, a cardigan sweater and tasseled loafers stood waiting. “Welcome, folks. You’re just in time for afternoon tea.”
“Are you the manager?” Dylan asked.
“Tom Putnam, innkeeper, at your service. Do you have reservations?”
“No—” Dylan began.
“Then you’re in luck,” Putnam said. “We have one room left for the weekend.”
Dylan hesitated. He’d wanted to ask his questions and leave, but now that he’d seen the place, he realized the host would treat his inquiries with more respect if Dylan were a paying guest.
“That’s great.” Dylan turned to Jennifer and signaled her with a look to play along with him. “Isn’t it, dear?”
She twisted her lips in an ironic smile. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
They followed Putnam into the entrance hall. The innkeeper moved behind a counter of carved mahogany and slid a register across its smooth surface toward Dylan. “Your room overlooks the rear gardens and the lake. The view is impressive this time of year with the fall foliage at its peak.”
“I’m sure we’ll love it,” Jennifer said.
Dylan was grateful she’d said it with a straight face. Once they reached the room, he’d have some heavy explaining to do. The last thing he wanted was for her to misunderstand his motives.
“Will you be paying in cash or by credit card?” the host asked.
“We can only stay one night,” Dylan said. “How much will that be?”
Putnam quoted the price, and Dylan fought to keep his shock from showing. He rarely carried that much cash. It was almost a week’s pay.
“Put it on my card.” He handed his card to the host.
While Putnam was checking his credit status, Dylan noticed Jennifer nonchalantly flipping backwards in the guest register, so deeply engrossed, she’d missed his conversation with the innkeeper. When Putnam turned back toward them, she returned quickly to the appropriate page and Dylan signed.
Putnam returned Dylan’s card and handed him a room key. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Blackburn. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay. Would you like to see your room now or join us for tea in the front parlor?”
“Tea, please,” Jennifer said before Dylan could comment. “I’m starving.”
“Follow me.”
Putnam led the way through double doors into an enormous formal room with floor-to-ceiling windows draped in heavy brocade, French antique furniture and a roaring fire in a marble fireplace. A buffet table set with a silver tea service, silver platters of sandwiches and tiered crystal cake stands stood along one wall. Several guests helped themselves to the refreshments while others lounged in the many sofas and chairs scattered throughout the room.
“Enjoy yourselves,” Putnam said, “and if you want a recommendation for dining out tonight, I’ll be happy to assist.”
He nodded to a few of the guests and returned to the entry hall.
“How much is this setting us back?” Jennifer whispered to Dylan.
“Enough that I might have to mortgage my truck,” he murmured.
Her gasp was audible above the muted classical music flowing from a hidden sound system.
“I’m kidding,” Dylan assured her.
“I’m not.” She tugged on his elbow. “We have to get out of here, fast.”
He allowed her to pull him toward the door. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Don’t look now,” she warned, “but Crutchfield and Mrs. Thorne are sitting at a table by the rear window.”
Chapter Nine
Heart pounding, Jennifer grabbed Dylan’s hand and pulled him across the foyer toward the staircase. “Don’t let them see us,” she whispered fiercely.
At the front desk, Putnam lifted his head from the book he was reading. “Anything wrong?”
“Jennifer’s decided she wants to see our room,” Dylan said. “Any chance of having tea sent up?”
“I’ll have a tray delivered immediately,” Putnam said.
Jennifer yanked Dylan’s hand impatiently, and he followed her up the elegantly carved, curving staircase to the second floor.
“For what Putnam’s charging us, he can afford to have tea delivered, accompanied by a brass band,” Dylan grumbled.
While Jennifer shifted anxiously from foot to foot and kept watch down the hall, Dylan turned the ancient key in the old-fashioned lock. As soon as he had the door open, she scooted past him.
He entered behind her and closed the door.
Collapsing into a slipper chair by the fireplace, she fanned her face and wai
ted for her pulse to cease its gallop. “That was close.”
“You’re sure it was them?”
She grimaced. “I’d know that cold-hearted creep anywhere.”
“He didn’t see you?”
“He was too busy making goo-goo eyes at Elissa Thorne. Neither one of them spotted me.”
Dylan settled into a chair on the other end of the hearth. “At least you were right about their coming here.”
She cocked her head and regarded him with a slow smile. “What’s the idea of booking this room? You’re not trying to seduce me, are you?”
“Why should I try?” His brown eyes twinkled with mischief. “I’ll just wait until we meet another cop and let you throw yourself at me again.”
Heat inched from her neck to her forehead. She’d never blushed as much in her life as she had since meeting Dylan. “And you registered us as Mr. and Mrs.?”
“I registered under my name only. Let Putnam draw his own conclusions.”
“Why did you decide to stay?”
Dylan leaned forward, all signs of teasing gone from the rugged lines of his face. “This isn’t some flophouse where I can bribe the night clerk with five bucks and learn all about the clientele. I figure Tom Putnam will be more forthcoming with information if we’re paying guests.”
“Makes sense.” She couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Although she’d joked about it, she found the prospect of being seduced by Dylan in the intimate elegance of the bed-and-breakfast suite enchanting.
She took her first good look at their accommodation. It was a spacious room with its own bathroom. A huge bay window, filled with a window seat with plump cushions, overlooked the garden. English-rose chintz covered the chairs and the massive canopied bed. Arrangements of fresh roses and peppery carnations scented the room. Cozy, intimate and romantic, the room was everything two people could want, if—
A knock sounded.
“Must be our tea.” Dylan rose and opened the door.
A pretty young woman in her early twenties stood in the doorway. Like Tom Putnam, she wore casual slacks and a sweater. She carried an enormous silver tray laden with a porcelain teapot and cups, and plates of sandwiches and cakes.
Stranger In His Arms Page 13
