Roxanne took a deep breath. OK. She was a mode? woman, right? And being a modern woman meant that she didn't have to wait for a man to ask her out anymore—she was perfectly free to do her own asking. Right? Yeah. Of course. And being a modern woman meant that she could make all the moves first, could even admit her love first—she didn't have to be an old-fashioned wilting-lily pining for the man to declare himself before she did. She could just say it. I love you. Right? Uh, well, no. To her dismay she discovered that she wasn't quite as modern as she'd always thought. The idea of telling Jeb that she was wildly, passionately in love with him, without knowing the depth of his feeling for her, was the most terrifying thing she had ever contemplated doing. She made a face. What a wimp, she was. She was letting the sisterhood down. Setting modern womanhood back thirty years. She shrugged. Screw the sisterhood, this was her life and she desperately wanted to know what Jeb really felt for her. He liked her, she knew that … but did he love her? Love her enough for them to make a life together?
When Roxanne remained silent, Jeb sighed and, turning away, asked, “So how was your day? Anything interesting happen while I was away fighting the minions of evil and injustice?”
Relief flooded through her … and the tiniest regret that she hadn't taken the opening. “Uh, no,” she said, pushing the racks of pastries away for further cooling. “Talked to my mom—Dad and Ilka have had the flu—apparently it's going around the valley. Pagan and Rica went computer shopping in Santa Rosa. Oh, and Shelly came by for lunch.” Her voice faltered as she recognized the canyon opening beneath her feet. She bit her lip. Telling Jeb that Shelly knew about them was another topic she'd just as soon avoid right now. You yellow-bellied coward, she thought contemptuously.
Jeb snagged a beer from the refrigerator and sat down at the kitchen table, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He caught the pause in her voice and shot her a sharp look. “And?”
“Um, nothing. She just came by and we had a nice visit. Those fertility tests she and Sloan took in January came back just fine. She's fretting though that she still hasn't conceived.”
“And?”
She turned and glanced warily at him. “And? What? I've told you everything.”
He contemplated her. She looked tasty enough to eat as she stood there at the kitchen counter and his body was still sizzling from that welcome home kiss. In the months they'd been together he'd become a pretty good judge of Roxanne's moods and right now she was as nervous as a hen eyeing a chopping block. He'd been a cop too long not to know when someone was lying to him. Most times, they were simple, unimportant lies. But sometimes, they were important lies and something told him that he needed to know what Roxanne was trying to hide from him.
“More to the conversation than that,” he murmured. “You're twitching and squirming like a worm on a hook. What else did you two darlings discuss?”
Roxanne glared at him and put her hands on her hips. “If you must know,” she snapped, “she found out about us.”
“Really?” he asked, lifting a brow. So that's what had her all in a twitter. Now this was very, very interesting. And so goddamn important, he thought his heart was going to jump out of his chest and lay its silly self right at her feet. His face revealing nothing, he inquired further. “And what exactly did she find out about us? Something I should know? Something you want to share?”
“She saw Dawg and Boss and recognized them and one thing led to another and I told her. …” Roxanne swallowed, looking very young and uncertain. “I, um, told her that we were sort of living together.”
“Sort of?” Jeb asked, taking a long swallow of his beer. Ah hell, Princess, he thought moodily, there's nothing “sort of’ about it—at least for me there isn't. And if I thought for one second that you weren't going to run off to New York or some other damned foreign place like that one of these days and take my heart with you, I'd make damn sure you understood that I'm not “sort of living with you. That I don't “sort of” live with anyone. Especially not you.
“Well, it is, sort of, isn't it? You still keep all your clothes and stuff across the valley. I mean it's not like you moved in or anything.”
He looked at her, something in his eyes making her heart race and her breath catch. Then his gaze dropped and the moment was gone. “Yep, guess you're right. We are sort of living together.”
Unhappily Roxanne stared at him. A perfect opportunity to take their relationship to the next step hadbeen handed right to him and he neatly sidestepped it. Maybe he didn't want to move in with her; maybe an enjoyable romp was all she meant to him. A little angry, she glared at him and muttered, “She's going to tell Sloan. It won't be a secret forever.”
He took another swallow of his beer. “You ask her to keep it a secret?”
Roxanne flushed, her cheeks burning bright pink. “Uh, well, yeah, I did. I didn't know how you'd feel about it.”
He glanced at her, that disturbing look in his black eyes again. “Question is, how do you feel about it?”
Of all the unfair tactics, Roxanne thought, outraged. She'd thrown the ball in his court and damned if he hadn't just tossed it right back at her. She narrowed her gaze. It was almost as if he were toying with her, trying to trick her into revealing her feelings first. Well, damn him!
“It doesn't matter to me who knows about us,” she said snippily and went to the refrigerator to get a bottle of water. “It's bound to get out sooner or later. You know the valley.” She shot him a glance over her shoulder. “And, remember, I'm used to having my private affairs splashed all over the place.”
He nodded. “Yep. Forgot about that.”
She could have slapped him. Those lovely eyes of hers sparking like firecrackers, she demanded, “Will it bother you? People knowing about us?”
Jeb laughed, reached out a long arm, and pulled her onto his lap. “Now what do you think?” He nuzzled her neck. “Have my name linked with the prettiest woman around? What's to mind?”
It was a very unsatisfactory answer. Bewildered and angry, Roxanne shot up from his lap. “Well, good,” she snapped, “I'm glad we have this settled.”
But it wasn't good and Roxanne was in an irritated mood for the rest of the evening. She couldn't figure him out any more than she could figure out her own reluctance to lay her cards on the table and find out what was going on between them. She knew her feelings. Her heart. But when it came to Jeb, she hadn't a clue. He was playing his cards too damn close to his chest. That he felt something besides lust for her, she didn't doubt, but there were times she sensed that part of him was closed off from her. Not often, but now and then. It was almost, she thought miserably, as if he was deliberately keeping her at a distance … as if he was just fine with things the way they were and that he had no intention of seeing what lay beyond their initial attraction to each other. It terrified her to think that she might be in this all by herself. All the gossip about his other women flitted through her head. Was that what she was? Just another woman in a long line?
If Jeb noticed that she seemed moody that evening he didn't mention it. He had enough troubles dealing with keeping things light and easy when every instinct he possessed screamed for him to grab her and pour out his heart. Nope. He wasn't traveling down that path. Light and easy. That was the way and he hail tokeep reminding himself of that fact every second of every day.
For all her moodiness, when Jeb reached for her that night and kissed her, she went flying into his arms, aware that at these moments, these moments of passion and desire, precious moments of intimacy and tenderness, that she had no doubts. No doubts at all.
By morning, even though she had resolved nothing, Roxanne's sunny nature reasserted itself. She hummed in the kitchen as she put on a pot of coffee, took some eggs and shredded cheddar cheese out for an omelet, and cheerfully began to chop some green pepper, onions, and Canadian bacon. Her good mood might have had some basis in the fact Jeb was going to go in late to the office this morning and that they could share a leisurely bre
akfast together.
It was still raining lightly and the day wasn't appreciably more appealing than yesterday had been, but – somehow this morning it didn't seem quite so bad. In fact, as she and Jeb sat down at the kitchen table and ate the omelet and whole wheat English muffins she'd toasted, it was a great day as far as she was concerned. They took their coffee mugs into the great room and lingered over coffee, talking easily as they usually did. Dawg was resting at her feet as she sat on the couch and Boss had taken up his place near a corner of the couch that Jeb had claimed as his own. Their conversation wasn't important; it consisted of simple things as they talked about this and that, enjoying the moment and each other's company.
The phone rang and Roxanne sent it an irritated look. Rising to her feet she walked over and answered it, her expression of irritation disappearing the moment she recognized the voice. “Marshall,” she cried, “what a surprise to hear from you. How are you doing?”
Jeb set his mug down and cocked an ear. Marshall? Who the hell was Marshall? His stomach suddenly knotted. Oh, yeah. Her fancy, famous New York agent, Marshall Klein.
Jeb tried not to listen to the conversation, contenting himself with scratching Boss's ear, but since she was less than ten feet away from him, he couldn't help overhearing. From his end, it sounded as if Marshall was trying to convince Roxanne to take a modeling job in Bermuda next month. Roxanne appeared to be listening, to be considering it, and Jeb's heart nose-dived. He'd known she'd leave sometime. Known that sooner or later the bright lights and pavement and glamour would lure her away from the valley. Away from him. He'd known all along that this time with Roxanne was just a taste of paradise. That it wouldn't last. He thought he'd accepted the idea, but as he listened, everything within him rebelled. It was all he could do not to leap up, march over to where she stood, and slam that phone down and tell her in blunt terms that she wasn't leaving the valley … and him. He fought his primitive impulse and kept right on scratching Boss's ears, dying a little inside.
Forcing a smile, when Roxanne put the phone down and turned around to face him, he said, “I couldn't help overhearing. Sounds like a pretty plush assignment. Bermuda, sun and surf.”
It did sound like fun. At least it had until she considered that accepting the assignment would mean leaving Oak Valley. Her home. Dawg and Boss … and Jeb. If she'd never tasted the heady brew of fame and fortune, she would have jumped at the offer. The money was great. The locale was great. The photographer, Gabriel, was a leader in the industry and a favorite of hers. The assignment was short—she wouldn't be gone more than a week. It would be a perfect opportunity to rub shoulders again with friends she'd made in the industry. Put her toe back in the water for a bit. But Roxanne knew in her heart that the life she'd left behind no longer appealed—one of the reasons she was standing where she was right now, trying to decide if she really wanted to step back into the limelight—if only briefly.
Roxanne shrugged. Seating herself on the couch, she picked up her mug of coffee and took a sip. “When you've seen one sandy beach, no matter how beautiful, you've seen them all.”
“You're not going to accept the assignment?” he asked incredulously.
Roxanne looked at him across her mug. “Would you mind if I did?”
Jeb sat back and scowled at her. “Is this a test?”
Roxanne smiled. “No. I'm just curious how you'd feel about me taking off for a week or two to do some modeling.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Making oodles of money.”
His first response was to roar that you bet your sweet ass he didn't like the idea one damn bit. That hell, no, he didn't want her traipsing off to Bermuda and cavorting around half-naked before a guy named Gabriel and who knew how many other men. Christ, what did she think he was made of?
He opened his mouth. Shut it. Thought about it. This was her career. She must love it—she stayed in it long enough. How would he feel if she asked him to give up his career in law enforcement? He knew the answer to that one. He swallowed. Ah shit. Sometimes life was just too complicated.
Jeb rubbed his hand over his face. Wearily he said, “If that's what you want to do, then I've no right to put obstacles in your way.”
“That's true,” Roxanne agreed, not certain whether to be happy or upset with his words. It was nice that he was being so “modern” about it, but she thought she'd prefer it if he'd at least act as if her absence would bother him. “But would you be happy about it?” she persisted.
Jeb's look burned her. “Hell, no.” Feeling he'd revealed too much, he growled, “What about the opposite? What if I was gonna be gone for a week? Going back to Washington, D.C., for a seminar or something? Would you be happy?”
Her eyes danced, her heart nearly flying out of herchest. “Hell, no,” she said. “I'd make you take me with you.”
Jeb grinned, his dark mood vanishing. “Sounds like a plan. So you gonna take me to Bermuda with you?”
Roxanne stood up. “Nope.” At the expression on his face, she didn't know whether to run for her life or burst out laughing. “I don't think that Bermuda holds much interest for me these days.”
“You're going to pass on this job?”
She nodded. “Hmm, yes, I think so. Marshall will understand. I told him when I left New York that while I was going to be semi-retired what I really meant was that I'd be mostly retired and that the assignment would have to be something really special.” She shrugged again. “This one isn't. It'd be fun and I'm sure I would enjoy myself—Gabriel is a great guy, and an even greater photographer, and my friend Ann Talbot is going to be one of the other models on the shoot. It would be pleasant and no doubt fun, but …” She looked around her, at Dawg at her feet, Jeb and Boss across from her, and the view of the valley right outside the French doors. “But I'd have to leave all this behind and this means more to me now than a week in Bermuda ever could.”
As he drove down the twisting road, heading for work, Jeb kept turning Roxanne's words over and over in his head. Maybe she really was back in the valley for good. Maybe she wasn't going to go flying back to the glamorous world she'd left behind. Of course, that “now” was the tricky part. Maybe next time Marshall called she wouldn't feel the same way.
As he turned onto Highway 101, Jeb was frowning, his thoughts on Roxanne. He really wouldn't mind if she took the occasional modeling assignment, he wouldn't like it, but he wouldn't mind. He was a big boy. He could endure a week or two without waking up beside her in bed every morning. Just. But he could handle it. He'd be miserable, probably grouchy as a bear with a festered paw, but he'd be OK. What he feared was that if she did take those intermittent assignments and traveled to all those fascinating and enchanting spots all over the world, sooner or later the simple charm of the valley would pall and there'd be a time that she didn't come back. That she disappeared into the sophisticated hustle and bustle of New York, or Madrid, or London, or any one of a dozen more exotic cities and he'd never see her again except smiling from the pages of a magazine.
His heart turned into a lump of ice and there was a desolate twist to his lips as he considered that idea of Roxanne gone from his life. He didn't think he'd survive it. He'd thought he'd been in love before, thought that he'd found love everlasting, but comparing what he felt for Roxanne to the emotion he'd felt for his two wives made him realize what a pale thing those emotions had been. Christ. No wonder his marriages had failed. He'd only given half his heart and it had taken falling violently in love with Roxanne to show him the difference.
Jeb's eyes were bleak as he drove toward Willits. So what the hell was he going to do? Somehow he had trouble believing that Roxanne would be happy for very long simply being the wife of a deputy in a mainly rural county in northern California. She was used to the glamorous life. Oh, sure, she seemed to be happy right now, but what about a year from now? Two years from now? What then?
Jeb was in a thoroughly bad mood when he finally arrived at work. Like a wounded cougar, he hid out in his cubicle at the office
and kept his head down, reading and writing reports, trying to keep focused on the job and not his personal problems. It was difficult, but somehow he managed and the stack of paperwork on his desk gradually shrank.
He was just getting ready to leave to drive home that evening when the phone on his desk rang. It was Gene Cartwright.
They exchanged greetings and bullshit for a few minutes and then Gene said, “You know that murder you asked me to look into? Guy by the name of Dirk Aston? Killed back in January of last year?”
“Yeah. Anything interesting about it?”
“A lot more interesting than I thought it would be.”
Jeb sat up, his eyes alert. “What do you mean?”
“Well, it's still technically unsolved, like most drug-connected crimes, but we think we know who did it—and why. Word on the street is that it was no accident that your guy got clipped. It was an accident that he died, but not that he got shot. Word is that he'd been skimming money and drugs and his employers took a dim view of it—they wanted their belongings back. According to street gossip, some kid was supposed to wound Aston, frighten him, let him know just exactly what a dim view they took of his pilfering. Wasn't meant to be a hit. At least not then. I don't doubt that once they got back their belongings Mr. Aston wouldn't be long for this world. He crossed the line and there was no way they were going to let him live. But first he had to cough up the goodies.”
Coming Home Page 27
