“Thank you for your time, Mr. Thorton.”
Clay left the office building, grateful to be outside, despite the July heat. Although the law office had been cool, Clay had felt stifled by the excessive display of wealth and the cold, passionless Greg Thorton.
He’d never had a particularly high opinion of lawyers, considered them a necessary evil in the world. But Greg Thorton definitely pushed his hot buttons.
His head told him the man was too cool, too dispassionate to be the note writer, but Clay had been around the block more than once. He knew that sometimes a calm exterior hid a cauldron of seething, raging emotions.
As he drove home, he replayed the interview in his head, wondering vaguely if his dislike of Greg Thorton had nothing to do with what the man did for a living or his cool personality, but rather with the fact that Ann had chosen to date the cold fish.
He frowned, irritated by his own thoughts. The last thing he needed in his life right now was a relationship. In thirty-seven days he’d be on a beach in Hawaii, living the life of a single retired cop. No problems, no hassles, nobody to answer to or support. Just sand, beach and sun.
Pulling into the apartment complex where he lived, he shoved all thoughts of Greg Thorton and Ann Carson out of his head. Instead, he focused on what he needed to accomplish today. Today he started packing up, throwing out and getting organized for his life of leisure.
His apartment was a small, one-bedroom unit, more a place to eat and change clothes than a real home. He’d lived in the same space for the last ten years. The rent and utilities were low and he didn’t spend enough time here to get depressed about the smallness of the place or the lack of attractive decor.
The small apartment, the old, but reliable car...all had been a part of his master plan. The plan of saving as much money as possible, taking retirement as soon as possible, then living out his dream. The plan had been born on the night of his father’s death ten years ago.
He’d just finished packing up a box of winter clothes for charity when a knock fell on his door. “Hey, Raymond,” Clay greeted his buddy and ushered him in through the living room and into the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”
“You forgot.” Raymond’s smile fell. “I knew I should have called and reminded you.”
Clay snapped his fingers, suddenly remembering exactly why Raymond was here. “The ski equipment.”
“Have you changed your mind? I mean, maybe you’d rather store it instead of just giving it away.”
“I’m not going to have much use for snow equipment in Hawaii. Have a seat, all I have to do is go downstairs to the storage area and get it.” Clay grabbed his keys off the table. “Help yourself to a beer, or whatever. I’ll be right back.”
It took Clay only minutes to find the ski equipment he intended to give to Raymond. When he got back to the kitchen Raymond had popped the top on a brew and was munching some peanuts from a can Clay had forgotten he had. “Here you are, skis, poles, boots and a snowsuit you’ll never manage to get your beer gut into.” Clay placed the things in the corner, then went to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer for himself.
“Don’t make fun of my gut. I’ve worked long and hard to attain it,” Raymond said as he patted his protruding stomach. He took a deep draw of his beer. “Hey, that was some nice-looking woman who came into the station to see you last night. Business or pleasure?”
“Business, although I wouldn’t mind a little pleasure,” Clay said wryly. “Her name is Ann Carson. She’s the possible intruder call I answered the other night at the Evergreen condos. She received another note...this one more threatening.”
“You know, I read about a case where a woman was getting threatening notes and horrible things in the mail. Her dog was killed and left on her front porch...graffiti was sprayed on her house. The cops went nuts trying to find the perpetrator.”
“What happened?” Clay asked.
“They discovered the woman was doing it all herself.”
“You’re kidding? Why?”
Raymond shrugged. “I guess for attention. Who knows why women do the things they do?” Raymond swallowed another slug of beer and belched. “Maybe the attractive Ann Carson is writing notes to herself.”
“I can’t imagine that,” Clay replied. “She doesn’t seem the type who would do anything to seek attention.”
Raymond finished his beer and crushed the can. “Just a thought. At least you aren’t working a murder case or anything serious that would play havoc with your retirement.”
“I don’t intend to allow anything to play havoc with my retirement. Besides, the chief is keeping my caseload light in anticipation of my leaving the force.”
“Lucky you.” Raymond tossed his crumpled beer can into the wastebasket in the corner and stood up. “Guess I’d better get out of here. Ginger wants me to paint the shutters, and I’ve been promising her to get to it and it looks like today is the day.” He gathered up the ski paraphernalia.
“I don’t envy you that job in this heat,” Clay replied, also rising and walking with Raymond to the front door.
“Ah, but Ginger has promised me a decadent reward for my hard work in the heat.” Raymond mugged a leer, then grinned. “I’ll see you at the station tomorrow. Thanks for the ski stuff.”
“Enjoy it,” Clay said, then closed the door and went back to the kitchen. He sank down at the table and grabbed his beer and a handful of peanuts. Popping the peanuts into his mouth, he chewed thoughtfully.
Was it possible Ann Carson had written those notes? Was it some sort of psychotic plea for help or attention? He just couldn’t imagine such a thing. Or was he allowing a stab of personal interest in the woman to cloud his professional shrewdness?
She’d certainly done nothing to indicate any culpability, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Still, he found it difficult to seriously entertain the idea that Ann had written the notes to herself.
Maybe he’d take a ride over to the college later that afternoon, tell her he’d spoken with Greg Thorton, see what kind of a reaction she’d have to that bit of information. He refused to dwell on the pleasure that coursed through him as he thought of seeing her once again.
Ann sat at her desk, grateful this was her last class of the day and the students were doing a reading assignment that required nothing from her.
Checking her watch, she decided to give them ten more minutes, then use the last fifteen minutes of class time to go over some of the finer points of Poe’s prose.
A headache pointed with sharp intensity just behind her eyes, an old familiar sign of lack of sleep. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, seeking relief but knowing only a good night’s rest would banish the cursed ache.
Thank goodness it was Friday. No classes, no students for the next two days. Hopefully she could catch up on some much-needed sleep over the weekend.
The classroom door opened and she looked up to see Clay come in. Surprised, and oddly pleased to see him, she started to rise. He indicated he’d wait for the end of the class and she sat back down.
He found a chair at the back of the room and slid into it, his posture a relaxed sprawl. He looked perfectly at ease and Ann would bet he’d spent most of his high school years slouched in a desk at the back of the room.
Without his uniform, clad in a pair of worn, tight-fitting jeans and a navy T-shirt, he looked younger, even more vital than he had on the previous occasions she’d seen him.
She tried to focus on the paperwork in front of her, but found it next to impossible with him watching her. She felt his gaze lingering on her, as if he knew that beneath the pale blue suit she wore a completely frivolous lacy camisole.
Of course he knows no such thing, she berated herself. Wondering if lack of sleep had addled her brain as well as given her a headache, she arose to complete the last ten minutes of class.
As the last student left the classroom, she walked back to where Clay sat. “You look like you belong in the back of the room,” she
said.
He grinned, the warm smile that stroked Ann with an unexpected heat. “It definitely brings back memories of high school days. I was what you teachers refer to as an underachiever.”
She smiled. “Most kids are underachievers in high school. It’s what you do with your life that counts and I’d say you’ve achieved just fine in that aspect.” Her smile faltered slightly. “Any news for me? More questions? What brings you to my turf?”
Clay stood up and took a step toward her, bringing with him the evocative scent of minty soap, bright sunshine and an underlying whisper of maleness. “I went to Greg Thorton’s office this morning and had a little chat with him.”
A group of students entered, their laughter filling the room. “We can’t talk here. Another class is going to start: soon.”
She hesitated a moment, her head pounding with almost nauseating intensity. “Why don’t you follow me back to my place? We can talk there.” She really didn’t want to go anywhere but home...home where as soon as they finished talking she could go to bed.
“Okay. I’ll meet you there.”
Together they walked out of the classroom and into the early evening twilight. They parted ways on the sidewalk, Ann heading for the staff parking lot and Clay going in the opposite direction.
As Ann hurried toward her car, she was thankful the day was over and hoped she could sleep undisturbed tonight.
“Ms. Carson.”
She looked around, seeking who had called her. She smiled as she saw Dean Moore heading toward her, his electric wheelchair covering the space between them with an audible hum. “Dean. I didn’t know you were taking other classes besides my creative writing course.”
He nodded, the silver strands in his hair shining in the waning golden sun. “Taking classes helps pass the time,” he said. He shuffled through some paperwork and held out several sheets. “I wrote another short story and want you to critique it. I think I fixed a lot of the mistakes I made when I wrote the last one.”
“Great, I’ll look at it and bring it to class Tuesday night.” She tucked it among her other papers. “Now, I’ve got to get out of here.”
“And I’ve got to get to class.” With a wave, he pushed the button that moved his chair forward. “See you next Tuesday,” he called over his shoulder.
Ann continued to her car, wondering what malady had struck Dean Moore to put him in the wheelchair. The stories he’d written so far had been filled with barely veiled bitterness, tales of what might have been for him if not for the inconvenience of being confined to a wheelchair.
Making a note to herself to read the story over the weekend, Ann got into her car and headed home. As she drove, her thoughts again turned to Clay Clinton.
It bothered her just a bit, how his very presence evoked a warm river of pleasure inside her. Surely it was just because he was a policeman. The notes had frightened her, once again given her a taste of victim mentality. It was only natural that a policeman would make her feel safe and banish the bitter taste of being victimized.
Certainly her pleasure at seeing him had nothing to do with the breadth of his shoulders or the way his jeans fit his slender hips. Surely it had nothing to do with his coffee-colored eyes that radiated a lively sense of humor and the smile that seemed to caress her like a touch.
She didn’t want a relationship of any kind, didn’t feel mentally ready to share intimately with a man, either on a physical or mental level. Her failed relationship with Greg merely supported her belief that relationships just didn’t work for her.
As always when she pulled into her driveway, a sweet peace rushed through her as she eyed the place she called home. Home. She’d lived her life dreaming of being in one place, waking up each morning and knowing exactly where she was and that nobody could take it away from her.
Clay’s car was already parked by the curb. As she turned off her engine, he appeared at the side of her car. “Thanks,” she said as he opened her door and took her papers and books from her arms.
“If I’d thought, I’d have brought you an apple.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not grading your performance as a policeman and you aren’t in my classes.”
They paused at the front door as she unlocked it. Pushing it open, she ushered him inside. “You can just put that stuff on the end table. Would you like some coffee?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m fine.” He sank down on the sofa, then jumped in surprise as Twilight leapt up next to him.
“Twilight, get down,” Ann scolded.
“He’s all right.” Clay scratched the big tomcat behind his ears.
Ann watched in surprise as the cat curled up next to Clay, closing his eyes in utter contentment as Clay continued to scratch him. “I’m shocked. Normally Twilight is quite antisocial.”
“That’s me, loved by animals and small children.” He flashed her a quick grin.
“I’ll be right back. I’ve got to get a couple of aspirin.” She escaped from the living room into the kitchen, disconcerted by the fact that Clay looked so at ease, so like he belonged in her living room. She opened her cabinet and took out a bottle of aspirin. Shaking two out in her palm, she thought with amazement how easily Twilight had accepted Clay.
In all the time Twilight had shared her living space, Ann had never seen the cat cuddle up next to anyone, except for herself. Twilight, like Ann, had always seemed to enjoy solitude. Slow to trust, wary of closeness, they had that in common.
She got a glass of water and swallowed the aspirins, then went back into the living room, where Clay was still petting the purring cat. “Headache?” he asked.
She nodded, realizing she’d been rubbing her forehead. She sank down in the chair opposite him. “I had a night of phone calls. The phone rang every fifteen minutes from the time I got home from work until five o’clock this morning.”
“I don’t understand.” He stopped petting Twilight and leaned forward. “Who was calling?”
“I wish I knew. The caller doesn’t say anything...just breathes for a moment or two, then hangs up.”
“You didn’t take the phone off the hook?”
She shook her head. “I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t think about it until this morning.”
“Is your number unlisted?”
“No, but if this continues, I’ll get an unlisted one.”
“What about an answering machine?” he added. “Most people tire quickly of machines taking their calls.”
“I know it sounds silly, but I feel like the notes and the calls are related...that somebody is watching me, enjoying the fact that they’re scaring me.” She shivered, the thought of somebody spying on her, watching her every movement chilling her to the bone.
Again she had the feeling that the happiness and security she’d finally managed to build had been constructed on the shifting sands of a beach. Any moment a wave would appear to carry it out to sea.
Clay frowned, obviously musing over the situation. “Maybe the calls are the work of the note writer, but if you were being watched and the caller intended to harass you again, he’d have seen you come home and the phone would be ringing now.”
“And he would have seen you, too.” She offered him a shaky smile. “I’m probably being far too paranoid. I just hope the caller got tired last night, because I’m exhausted and don’t want another night of interruptions.”
“If the calls continue, let me know and call the phone company. They have ways of dealing with that kind of harassment.”
She nodded. “And if the calls continue tonight, I’ll definitely unplug my bedroom extension.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “You said you went to speak with Greg this morning. Do you think he’s responsible?”
“I don’t know. He’s definitely a hard man to read.” He opened his mouth as if to say something, then snapped it shut, apparently changing his mind.
“What?” she asked. “What were you going to say?”
He grinned,
looking like a mischievous boy. “Something distinctly unprofessional. Greg Thorton struck me as an arrogant jerk... I’m just wondering what attracted you to dating him.” Clay no longer looked boyish. His gaze was all man, filled with a man’s curiosity and an attention that whispered of something sexual and intimate.
She felt her cheeks warm beneath the scrutiny, an answering interest stirred in her. “Now that I’m out of that relationship, I’ve asked myself that a dozen times.”
“Any answers?”
She shook her head and offered him a rueful smile. “I have yet to come up with any logical explanation.” She squeezed the bridge of her nose once again. “I still can’t imagine him being behind the notes and phone calls. It’s just not his style.”
“I should get out of here and let you get some rest,” Clay said. “We can talk some more another time. You look exhausted and I can see the pain of your headache in your eyes.” He stood and gave Twilight a final scratch on his belly.
Ann also got up and walked with him to the front door. Her headache pounded with each step she took. She thought longingly of her bed. Hopefully there would be no calls tonight. She opened the door and leaned against it. “Thanks, Clay.”
“For what?” He smiled gently. “Don’t thank me yet, I haven’t done anything.”
She shrugged. “I just feel better knowing you aren’t dismissing the notes as a prank and are actively working to find out what’s going on.”
“And I’ll feel better knowing you’re getting a good night’s sleep and having pleasant dreams.” He reached out and touched her cheek. A warm, momentary touch, then he dropped his hand. “’Night, Ann.” He turned and left, his long strides carrying him across the lawn and to his car.
She watched him go, the feel of his soft touch lingering on her skin. Reaching up, she touched her cheek thoughtfully. She suddenly knew why she’d chosen to date Greg. He’d been safe, nonthreatening...everything Clay Clinton was not.
She had a feeling Clay would demand give-and-take in a relationship, that he’d want to know a woman’s secret fantasies, deep yearnings and hidden past.
Behind Closed Doors Page 4
