As my hand twisted the knob to leave, he spoke. “Grace.”
I paused then turned in slow motion. “What?”
“I need you to keep quiet about what happened in Illinois. She doesn’t know I was there with you.”
Shame snapped in every cell of my body, followed by a quick synapse of anger. “We’ll see.”
With the agility of a panther, the speed of a bullet, and the fear of a man about to be ratted out to his wife, he shot around the desk. He snatched my arm away from the door, pushed me against the wall, and crowded me into the corner.
I met his dark, glittering gaze. My mouth twisted. “Get the hell off me.”
His body pressed into mine and his hand wrapped around the base of my throat. Panic and fear raced through my veins as his grip tightened, fingers squeezed, and I struggled for oxygen. He leaned in close, mouth against my ear, his voice low and calm. The tone belonged to a serial killer, not the Blane who’d consoled me after Daddy died. “You’re not going to say anything.”
I shook my head as my chest burned and breathing became more difficult. Struggling to get away, I wrapped my fingers around his and tried to pry them free.
He was one second away from a painful kick between his legs. His fingers fell away, but his body remained tight against mine.
I gulped in a huge swallow of air then coughed in his face for the effort. “Get off of me.”
His thumbs brushed down the sides of my breasts as he palmed my ribs. “I never did get to enjoy these much.”
Bracing both hands against his chest, I shoved with every ounce of energy I could muster. “You son of a bitch. Stay the hell away from me.”
Flinging the door open, I made my escape. My jelly legs carried me to the steps, then down before I collapsed onto a park bench outside the police station.
I looked up and down the block, and there, like a beacon calling out to me, neon lights in a window, an open sign, my salvation from a day I should never have started. As soon as my legs would carry me, I hobbled down the street, and for a moment, when I reached the door, I stood back in appreciation of the name. Mom’s House. I imagined for a quick second the arguments saved by the name. Where you going? Mom’s House. No one lied. No one got unhappy.
With a chuckle that escaped on a choking cough, I pulled the old wooden door open and stood back in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust to the quiet interior. Some old timers sat at the bar sucking suds from schooners while a TV blared in the corner. I perched on a stool two away from anyone else and waited…and waited…“Excuse me. Can I get a drink?”
“We don’t serve your kind in here.”
“My kind?” What the hell? Had word spread so quickly?
“Lawyers.”
I ripped open my wallet and slapped four one hundred dollar bills onto the bar. “Lawyers make a shit load of money. And we drink a lot.”
He shuffled down to stand in front of me. “What can I get you, honey?”
“Jack and Coke with a shot of tequila.”
A few drinks later, me, the bartender, Joe, and my money had all become best friends. I’d almost forgotten about the incident in Blane’s office. Then an interruption to our regularly scheduled program on the bar’s ancient TV announced the Texas Attorney General’s office reopened seven cases prosecuted by Blane Sheperd. They had gathered evidence that he or members of his staff participated in widespread jury tampering, including threatening members of the families of jurors seated on the cases. I flipped my glance back to the melting ice cubes in my drink. “Hey, Joe. What the hell? My drink is empty.”
He chuckled. “Never met a pretty little thing like you who could put away the whiskey like you do.”
I wiggled my finger and leaned in close. “Wanna know my secret?”
He nodded.
“Practice. Lots and lots of practice.” I laughed as though I’d never before heard a joke and found that one uproariously funny. “What time is it?”
He checked a clock on the wall behind him that had a few too many hands, then turned to face me again. “Six fifteen.”
“The night is young.”
Soon, the Friday after work crowd piled in, couples and singles elbowed for space as Joe got off work and a college-aged kid started pouring drinks. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Tyler. You must be Grace.”
“How do you know?”
“Everybody knows about Grace Wade, and I know everybody.”
“Yeah? Let’s test that theory. You know the Quinns?” Hey. Even tipsy, I could do my job. Too bad none of my friends could be there to see it. My mind musings forced a smile I hid behind the rim of my glass.
He nodded. “Nathan. Quiet guy. Drinks vodka on the rocks.”
“What about his wife?”
“No. Never met her. I saw her in town with the kids before, but she don’t come in here.” He picked up my glass. “You need another drink, darlin’?”
I nodded. He walked away, and before he returned, my chair spun toward the dance floor, almost throwing me out. “Hello, beautiful. My name’s Sam, and I would love to buy you a drink.” He tipped a snow white cowboy hat. I took it off his head and smacked it onto mine.
“That sounds wonderful.”
Sam turned out to be a great dancer, a fun drinker, and semi-good karaoke singer. When he dedicated some eighties hair band rock anthem to me, I couldn’t help but climb up on the bar and dance.
A hand reached out for me and I smiled, slipping my fingers into his. My smile didn’t fade until the moment I caught a glimpse of the black T-shirt and cargo pants. “Shit.”
I stepped onto the bar stool as Jamie clasped his hands around my waist and lifted me to the floor. Unable to bear the look on his face, the hurt I’d put there, I turned away. I could see disappointment anytime I wanted. Just hand me a mirror. There was no way I was going to let him ruin a buzz that cost me four hundred bucks. Shaking my moneymaker as Sam belted out the chorus and half the bar clapped along, I ignored Jamie and his damn cologne.
“What happened to your neck?” He shouted over the music, his voice losing none of its sexiness for the act.
I didn’t turn to face him. “Someone gave me enough rope.” I laughed at what I thought was the funniest joke ever told.
“Come on, funny girl. You don’t belong here.” His fingers curled around my forearm, gently tugging while his thumb soothed the skin on the inside of my bicep as he pressured me around to face him.
I pushed against his chest, tired of being manhandled by the Sheperd men. “I don’t want to leave, Jamie. I’ve had a hard week and I am sick and tired of people telling me what to do. So, go away and let me have some fun.”
He nodded to Jeb, an old-timer who’d come to sit by me halfway through my day. I’d poured out my troubles on his slightly hunched shoulders and he’d smiled. We spent the afternoon chatting and he imparted some fine words of wisdom. Hang in there and buck up, and, for the love of God, don’t trust men who take you out on a country road and bend you over the hood of a car. He’d said it with a down-home slur that softened the words and made me like him even more. Oh, if Jeb had only been about fifty years younger…
Jeb stood. “Take care of her, Sheriff. Your brother did a number on her.” I didn’t miss the affection in his wink or his tone as he moved toward the door, leaving a seat open for Jamie.
“What are you doing, Grace?” Again with the disappointment and I shoved my fingers into the sides of my mouth and whistled at Sam who’d commandeered the stage to bellow out a second song.
I waved my newly emptied glass in front of Tyler. “And get the sheriff here a ginger ale or would you prefer a Shirley Temple? What do straight-laced good boys drink?”
I had no experience with his kind and tried to picture Jamie drinking. He’d only done it the one time in front of me, and he hadn’t been very good at it. Now, the only image I could conjure came in a teacup and had a lemon floating inside. It had
to be the accent clouding my thought process.
Jamie nodded to Tyler and said, “Beer.”
“Oh, look at the good brother being all bad ass and drinking in uniform.” I tsked him before turning back to my drink.
“Did Blane do that to you?” He ran his hand along my throat, his gaze following the path as I turned back toward him. “God, Grace.” His eyelids closed for a second and I waited for whatever else he might say.
When no sounds came, I brushed him away. “Doesn’t matter. I got mixed up in something I shouldn’t have and I learned. That’s what my life is all about, Jamie. Learning from my mistakes.” I hid behind the veil of my hair. “Fortunately, I get to do it a lot. You’d think I’d be darn near genius by now.”
He took a swig of his beer and looked straight ahead into the mirror behind the hard liquor bottles on shelves at the backside of the bar. I don’t know what decision he made as his eyes raked over my face in that mirror, but he smiled a soft smile and turned to me. “Dance with me?”
“Why? You hated me yesterday. What changed between then and now?”
“I think you did.” He held out his hand and wiggled his fingers. “Come on.”
Swaying as I stood, I grasped hold of him then squeezed through people until he stopped and drew me into his arms.
“You know what he said to me?” I knew the rules for dating. Don’t talk about one guy to another. But my mouth had a mind of its own, and I didn’t try to stop the words as they tumbled out.
“What?” His chin rested on my head and I pulled back to look up at him.
“That he wouldn’t be staying with her if she wasn’t pregnant.” I nodded. “That just means he knew he was married.”
“Do you love him, Grace?”
“No.” So what if he’d helped me get through the worst day of my life. He also used my body as his own personal pounding ground. So what if he held me while I cried into my pillow. He was married to a vicious little woman who had his bun in her oven. “Definitely, no.”
“Good. You’re too good for him.”
I reached a hand up and cupped his cheek. “Did I hurt you, Jamie?”
“No.”
“Liar.” I pulled his head down for a kiss that stopped the motion of our bodies, scorched the air around us, and burned its way through my veins. His soft lips parted and his hands clenched the back of my blouse in a fist as our tongues mated inside his mouth. The kiss lasted for minutes or hours, I couldn’t be sure, but the world slipped away. In this version, no Blane existed. We weren’t standing on a dance floor in a bar with bad country music playing on an antique jukebox. Gabrielle Quinn didn’t exist and no one in the world mattered but Jamie. When he pulled away to lean his forehead against mine, I could do little more than hang on to him and gasp for breath.
I’d made a mistake with Blane and hurt Jamie to do it. Even in my alcoholic haze, I wanted to make it right. Because unlike his brother, Jamie was…he was…
“To be loved completely, flaws and all,” I whispered, wondering if he’d be able to make the connection.
He smiled. “Your birthday wish?” He kissed the sore spot on my neck. “I don’t want to be the guy you run to when he hurts you.”
“Then what do you want to be?” I kept my mental fingers crossed.
He pressed his lips against the top of my head. “The guy who loves you completely, flaws and all.”
“There are a lot of flaws.”
He pulled back then ran his finger down my cheek. “Admitting it’s half the battle.”
Chapter 21
I flung the alarm clock across the bedroom, snuggled back into Jamie’s warm chest, and pulled his arm over me. Nestled closer, I moaned in sheer delight, quite happy to forget whatever reason I’d thought to set an alarm for seven on a Saturday morning.
Later, with a dull throbbing behind my eyes and a louder pounding on my front door, I rolled over to find the spot next to me cold, empty. I flipped a pillow over my head and yanked the blanket up.
Muted voices disturbed my pending death by over-indulgence. I slipped into my robe and stumbled out to the living room. Charity, Faith, and Jamie stood in the doorway discussing his new accent.
“He’s not Blane, you big dopes. He’s the other one.” The one. My brain screamed at my heart to shut the hell up, and I couldn’t decide which stance I wanted to take on the matter, so I shut up.
“Another late night, Grace?” Faith’s anger broke through my headache and I remembered the exact reason I’d meant to be up early.
“Yes.” No point in denying it.
Instead of pouncing as I expected, she ran her hands through her hair and said, “You owe me a hundred and seventy dollars for the cab ride here.”
I waved a hand toward the coffee table. “It’s in my wallet.”
She stalked across the room. After snatching my purse off the table, she looked inside, then turned my wallet upside down. “There’s nothing in here.”
I scanned back through the memories I had of the night before. “Oh, yeah. I spent four hundred dollars on a Jack and Coke.” Three sets of wide eyes stared at me in disbelief. “I needed a drink.”
I threw up my hands and stepped around Charity, and her open mouth, to the kitchen.
“It would have been cheaper to have an IV line set up.” Faith plopped on the sofa, her glare following me as I made coffee. Great. Just what I needed--the sister least happy to spend time with me plopped on my couch, judging things she knew nothing about.
“Not as much fun.” My words came at a pounding price and I spared no extras. I did wink at Jamie and smiled when he ducked his head.
“I should go.” He had one hand on the door before I thought to move.
“No. Wait.” I followed him outside. “Don’t.”
“Grace…”
“Come on. I probably need police protection now more than ever.” I waved a hand toward the door and grimaced.
He tucked my hair behind my ear and leaned down. “I’ll check on you later.”
I sighed. “I know this is horrible, but I don’t know how I got home, and I was wondering…did we--”
He shook his head. “You fell asleep at the bar and I brought you home. You asked me to marry you, did one hell of a strip tease, then fell asleep again.”
I looked away to avoid whatever emotion I would see in his eyes. “I’m kind of a mess.”
He got to the bottom step before he spoke. “I’ll call you later.”
I watched him walk across the street, the sway of his hips, the long gait of his legs.
“Marry him?” I mouthed the words then walked back inside to face an inquisition that would put the Spanish to shame.
* * * *
Crafty enough to get around their questions without giving too much away, I turned the conversation back to why Hope stayed in Illinois and Faith came in her place.
“Hope and Mom are redecorating.” Faith narrowed her eyes and sank farther into the sofa.
“Dad’s house?”
Charity nodded as she took a sip of orange juice I didn’t know I had. “The kitchen, new appliances, new cabinets and countertops. Then she bought new furniture and a big screen TV. She’s blowing through her money like she has an infinite supply.”
“And Mom’s encouraging it.” Faith didn’t bother to look up as she spoke.
I rolled my eyes. “Of course, she is. She’s getting the house all prettied up so she can sue us for it.”
“Can she do that?”
I shrugged. “Dad had her name taken off, but anything is possible. We’ll have to wait until she makes her move.” I had enough on my plate without having to play watchdog for them. I’d step in when we rolled around to the courtroom. They could handle it until then. “Now, about my case. Did you have a chance to look over the notes I sent you, the reports?”
Charity nodded and Faith flipped open a magazine buried under case files I’d combed through with Ro
ry. “Yes. I think your problem is in the victim herself. Your biggest challenge will be to answer the question of why her. Out of all the people in the house, why kill her? You answer that, and you’ll find your murderer.”
She wasn’t exactly spilling headline news. “I know, but so far, I can’t figure the answer. If you could have seen her mom, no one could fake that kind of genuine sadness.”
Charity shook her head. “You would be surprised what guilty people can do.”
I shrugged. I’d never been surprised before. “Okay, but I’d rather have some proof one way or the other, and there is none. They have no murder weapon, no blood on the mom. Dad was covered in it, a sick amount, and he’s walking around free.”
Charity glanced up at me, curious. “I thought she was all tucked in when they found her.”
“From what I was able to gather, Dad found her, picked her up, and was holding her when he called for Mom.”
She nodded. “Tell me about the hair in her hand. I couldn’t find a DNA report.”
“That’s because there isn’t one. The hair was lost, mislabeled, I don’t know. It won’t get into court anyway.” In a strange and not at all good for my client kind of way, I wished it would. At least then I’d know one way or the other.
“Let’s go to the house. I want to have a look around.” This was the Charity I needed. Not the motherly figure who groused if I enjoyed a beer or ten, not the sister who wanted to chat about my love life until it was dissected like a tenth grade science project, and not the social butterfly who wanted me to give her every detail of every person I’d met in town.
As I drove, she flipped through Emily’s medical records along with photos of the injuries. Faith sat quietly in the back filing her nails. “She had a broken leg when she was two. Fell down the stairs.”
“And?”
Charity shrugged. “Could be a sign of prior abuse.”
Falling Grace Page 17
