HOT ON HIS TRAIL

by Linda Winstead Jones

  She came again, moaning deeply. Her inner muscles caressed him, milked him as he gave over to his own release. And on the dying waves of their shared climax she said it again. She wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered in his ear. "I love you, Nick. No matter what happens, I love you."

  Their bodies still joined, he raised up to look at her, what he could see in the dark. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

  * * *

  The sun rose, slowly but surely. It was a day Nick wasn't certain he wanted to see.

  But it was here.

  Shea slept with her head on his shoulder and her arm across his midsection. Even in sleep, she held on. And she looked so content by morning's light. She looked so happy.

  She thought she loved him, and deep in his heart he wished it was true. He wished he could start over again, one more time, with Shea in his bed and his heart.

  Maybe he loved her, too. Maybe he just wanted to so badly that it felt real. Last night he'd had to bite his tongue to keep from saying, "I love you, too." The truth was, he'd never told a woman he loved her. Not Lauren, not any of the women who'd come before her.

  "Thank you," he whispered. "For believing in me when no one else did. For loving me." And then he knew it was true. He could deny it out loud, but not here. Not now. "For letting me love you back."

  One thing was true: he loved Shea enough not to ask her to live with him if he had to run again. He wouldn't take her family and her career and her friends from her and ask her to live day to day, always wondering who was close to capturing him again.

  He wouldn't make her a fugitive.

  And if they did find the real murderer? It was what he wanted most of all, but he had his doubts. It had been almost a year since Winkler had been murdered. Any evidence was long gone, and what were the odds that Shea could wrest a confession from the real killer? Not good. And even if she could … she would have her own kind of notoriety once this was over, and so would he. How could they ever have a normal life?

  He watched her until she came awake, cuddling against him, raking her fingers down his side. Her eyes opened a few minutes later and immediately landed on his face.

  Her smile grabbed his heart. Her eyes were so warm and loving he could too easily take her up on her offer. He could love her. He could sweep her up and run from this place and not look back.

  But he knew what he had to do. "Good morning," he said coolly. There was no smile to soften the emotionless words, no kiss. He couldn't afford either.

  Shea's smile faded as she sat up. "Are you okay?"

  "Fine and dandy." He turned his back on her and rolled from the bed. "A little tired. Damn, woman, you wore me out last night."

  "Last night was…" she began.

  "Fun," he snapped, turning to glance down at Shea as he interrupted. "That's all it was, sugar. One last night of diversion before it hits the fan."

  She went pale. "Diversion." Shea was not the kind of woman to beg, plead or cry, thank God. She took the news stoically.

  His back was to her as he dressed. "After ten months in jail I was pretty hard up, if you know what I mean. When I kidnapped you I really didn't intend for things to turn out this way, but I can't say I'm sorry they did."

  "Really?" she said softly, and with just a hint of anger.

  "You're hot stuff, sugar. Those brothers of yours are gonna have a tough time keeping you virtuous now that you know what good sex is like."

  The bed creaked, and he wondered if she'd come up behind him and hit him. He almost wished she would.

  "Well," she said, her voice in complete control. She recovered fast, his Shea. "It was a way to pass the time, since we couldn't very well risk turning on the television or a single light. There aren't many diversions to enjoy in the dark."

  "Only the one," he said softly.

  "I hope you didn't take any of my … my confessions seriously."

  He glanced over his shoulder. Shea was still pale, but she was strong. She'd do fine without him, no matter what happened.

  "Of course not," he said, forcing a small smile that hurt his face and his heart. "Part of the game, that's all."

  "Part of the game," she said, turning her back on him and heading for the bathroom and a long, hot shower.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  « ^ »

  Okay, maybe she was an idiot, but she could be a professional idiot. The story was all that counted. Finding the truth was all that mattered.

  Shea told herself this on Saturday morning as she knocked on Carter Able's door. There had been no suit in her duffel bag, but she had thought to pack a pair of dressy black trousers, a lightweight, red knit blouse and a comfortable pair of black sandals that suited the occasion. She would start here at the Ables' house and work her way around the circle, ending with Polly Winkler's. The Able kids were playing down the street, and Carter and his wife, Amanda, were at home alone. Nick waited out back, watching and listening for his chance to slip through the back door.

  She'd tried to convince Nick that she didn't need him along, that she was perfectly safe without him, but he didn't agree. Stubborn, obstinate, pigheaded, insensitive man.

  The door swung open and she smiled widely. "Hi," she said in her peppiest voice. "I'm Shea—"

  "I know who you are," Carter said, obviously stunned to see her. "Nick kidnapped you. It was all over the news." He looked over her shoulder. "Where's your car?"

  Shea was unflustered. "I had my cameraman drop me off. This is just a preliminary investigation for a special show I'm going to put together. I didn't want the camera to scare people off."

  Carter nodded and opened the door wide. "Come on in."

  "I'd really like to talk to you and Mrs. Able together, if that's okay."

  "Sure."

  Carter went to fetch his wife, and Shea took a moment to gather her thoughts and study the living room. It was well kept, considering the Ables had three children. No toys scattered about, no crumbs, no snack cake wrappers. Her own living room wasn't this clean. If there had ever been any evidence in this house, it was long gone.

  Carter returned with Amanda, a pretty, dark-haired woman dressed in shorts and a Soccer Mom T-shirt. She was as openly interested as her husband in Shea's investigation. They sat together on the sofa, and Shea perched on the end of a matching chair with her notebook in her lap.

  They spoke eagerly about the barbecue the night of Winkler's death, but added nothing Nick hadn't already told her. They talked about Gary and how he'd flirted with Lauren, about Nick and his temper, about the fabulous casserole Mrs. Casson had brought. Gary held his wife's hand while he told Shea what he'd seen the next morning, after Gary's body was found. The entire time they both remained wide-eyed and anxious. If these people had anything to hide, they were fabulous actors.

  As Shea listened to the Ables, she also listened for Nick. The faint sound of a slipping lock, a footstep in the kitchen. She heard nothing, and eventually began to wonder if he was in the house at all.

  It didn't matter if he was here or not. It didn't matter if he did run to Montana or Canada or Mexico. She was going to see this through to the end, no matter how he felt. No matter what a jerk he was.

  She smiled as Carter and Amanda told her about what had happened after the police arrived on the scene, but she was already set to move on. As far as she could tell they were being completely honest.

  Unlike some people she knew.

  She said her goodbyes, and when Amanda asked if they were going to be on television, Shea winked and assured them they would.

  Head high, she walked past Nick's house, not even glancing up at the bedroom window. She walked past the Burgess house. To anyone watching it might seem odd that she skipped that house, but she wasn't ready to face Lauren. Especially not right now.

  If Nick was keeping pace in the woods that ran behind the houses, she never saw him. Again, she told herself she didn't care if he was there or not.

  The snake.

  * *
*

  The Blackstones' back door was unlocked, so the mangled credit card stayed in his pocket. Shea had already begun, questioning Tom and Natalie in her most professional voice.

  The Blackstone kitchen was set up much like his own, but was much warmer. There were flowers in the breakfast nook, a cake cooling on the counter. The kids had left their mark here, with juice boxes, Kool-Aid stains, and crumbs in every corner. Somehow the mess made the place seem more homey, lived in and welcoming.

  Nick had told Shea he would look around the houses while she interviewed his neighbors, but he didn't even try. No one here was stupid enough to leave a clue sitting around for more than ten months. He got as close as he dared and listened. He listened to what his neighbors and friends had to say, but more than that he listened for signs of trouble. If Shea pushed the wrong buttons and got herself in too deep, he would be there to step in.

  If Shea was in danger, it didn't matter who saw him, didn't matter if the police caught up with him or not. He wouldn't allow anyone to hurt her.

  And it was entirely possible that someone would try. She was tenacious, pushed too hard at times. If he was guilty, Shea Sinclair would scare the bejesus out of him.

  So he listened. The Ables had been boring and a little too interested, as usual. Tom was more reserved, but his wife, Natalie, was eager to tell Shea everything she knew. Including the fact that she thought Nick, bless his heart, was guilty as sin.

  Nick flattened his back against the wall, close enough to listen and respond if necessary, not so close that anyone would know he was there.

  "I never could quite figure out why," Natalie said. "I mean, no one liked that godawful green Gary was painting his house, but I don't think anyone would kill him over it. Except maybe Vernon Casson. He can be such a grump." She paused to take a deep breath. "But maybe Gary gave Nick that same awful stock tip he gave us—remember, honey?"

  "I'm sure Miss Sinclair doesn't care about a year-old bad stock tip," Tom muttered.

  But of course, Miss Sinclair did.

  "What kind of stock tip?"

  "We lost a bundle," Natalie said, unnatural cheer in her voice. "Gary said later he was sorry, but I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out he knew all along the company would tank. It was one of those Internet stocks? Gary said it would go up twenty, a hundred times what we paid for it, but … well, it didn't."

  "No big deal," Tom said, in a low voice that told Nick it was a big deal.

  The interview didn't last long. When Shea said her goodbyes and promised to be back at a later date with her cameraman, Nick scooted toward the kitchen door and the wooded area beyond.

  "Poor Nick," Natalie said as she opened the front door for Shea. "I always knew he had a temper, but bless his heart, I didn't think he'd actually kill anyone."

  As he opened the back door he heard Shea say, confident as ever, "He didn't."

  * * *

  They were far from Marion, but the profusion of flowers in front of the Casson house reminded Shea a little of the small town where she and Nick had hidden for a while.

  That half-wit.

  Like the others, Mrs. Casson recognized Shea immediately. Unlike the others, she was initially reluctant to talk.

  Lillian Casson had the look of a strong woman, taller than average, solidly built. Her gray hair was done up in a soft, easy style, and she wore a minimum of makeup.

  "I assure you," Shea said as Mrs. Casson finally opened the door and invited her in. "Nothing you say will go on the air unless you approve it beforehand."

  "I'll be allowed to view the videotape and veto any part of my segment I don't approve of?"

  No self-respecting newsman would ever agree to such a request, but Shea smiled and said, "Of course."

  In her honeyed Southern accent, Mrs. Casson called her husband in to join them. He'd been taking a nap in his den, and yawned as he entered the living room. Vernon Casson wasn't much taller than his wife, and she probably outweighed him by about twenty pounds. He came instantly awake when he spotted Shea.

  "The weathergirl Taggert kidnapped," he said with a grin and a twinkling of his eyes. "Hot damn."

  "Vernon," Mrs. Casson said tersely. "Behave yourself. We have company."

  When she turned her head away from her husband, Lillian rolled her eyes.

  Shea opened her notebook, poised her pen to take a few notes, and set her calculating eyes on the Cassons. There was certainly nothing sinister here!

  "I don't believe Mr. Taggert is guilty," she said straight-out. "But someone in this neighborhood is. Who on this cul-de-sac might have had cause to murder Gary Winkler?"

  Lillian Casson lifted her chin, placed her nose in the air and sniffed. "Who didn't? Gary Winkler was a mannerless Yankee who managed to offend everyone, isn't that right, Vernon?"

  "You're absolutely right, dear," Vernon agreed halfheartedly.

  "Why, that horrid green paint he chose for his house was atrocious, and clashed horribly with my azaleas." Mrs. Casson had been reluctant to talk, but once she started she got on a roll and didn't want to stop. "He used to allow his grass to get nearly a foot high, and then mow at the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning, when Vernon was trying to sleep, isn't that right, Vernon?"

  "Yep," the old man said. "Winkler was a nuisance."

  "He was a dreadful neighbor," Lillian finished.

  "Mr. Casson," Shea began, "did you spend any time with Gary? Do you know of anyone besides Mr. Taggert who might've wanted him dead?"

  Mr. Casson opened his mouth, but it was Mrs. Casson who spoke. "Vernon and Gary were not close. They played golf a few times, but Gary cheated, so of course Vernon never played with him again."

  "So you didn't socialize with your neighbors on a regular basis." Again, Shea's eyes were on Mr. Casson, but Mrs. Casson answered.

  "Oh, no," she said, pursing her lips.

  Shea made a few notes. Apparently Vernon was not allowed to talk. "What about Mrs. Winkler?"

  Mrs. Casson smiled. "Polly is a sweet girl. Her people are from Georgia, I believe. How she ever hooked up with that Yankee, I'll never know."

  Nick had been right. No one here had liked Winkler. They'd tolerated him, they might even have occasionally played golf with him, but no one liked him. He was definitely not missed.

  "Would you like some tea?" Mrs. Casson asked, rising from her seat. "I have a special herbal blend I make myself. Polly loves it."

  Since Mr. Casson had a hard time getting a word in edgewise when his wife was in the room, Shea was tempted to accept, though herbal tea was not on her list of favorite beverages. But Nick was probably hiding in the kitchen, listening. She didn't dare.

  "No, thank you."

  She tried to turn her attention to Mr. Casson. He was a little bit older than her father, she imagined. Retired but still kicking.

  "So you think he didn't do it, huh?" he asked.

  Shea shook her head. "That's right."

  "So who did?"

  Shea had to shake her head. "I don't know."

  Lillian started to speak, but Vernon raised a hand to silence his wife. She closed her mouth, alerting Shea to the fact that the balance of power in this marriage was not completely one-sided.

  "Let me give you a little advice, Miss Sinclair," he said, dipping his chin and looking her square in the eye. "I liked Nick, I really did. He kept his yard nice and neat and he never made much noise and he kept to himself, most of the time. But don't let yourself be fooled by a purty face. I was there that night, and Nick was sure as shootin' mad enough to kill."

  Shea felt her face flush hot. Heavens, she was blushing! A real no-no in her profession. "I assure you, Mr. Casson, I was not fooled by a pretty face. In researching the case I discovered that the investigation was tainted in several areas—"

  "Tainted my foot," he interrupted. "I saw them drag the bat out of the sewer drain. I heard all about the blood and paint they found in his kitchen. I saw Winkler trifling with Nick's girlfriend."

  Mrs. Casson
wrinkled her nose and sniffed.

  "Let it go, Miss Sinclair," Vernon Casson advised. "You're only going to get hurt if you keep on dredging up the past."

  She wasn't about to let an old man scare her. "Hurt? In what way?" she asked calmly.

  He hesitated, but only for a moment. "I have a feeling you're going to be real disappointed when you find out your pretty boy is a cold-blooded killer."

  Shea again declined Mrs. Casson's offer of tea, and left the house with a sigh of relief. Mr. Casson, a murderer? Over green paint and Sunday morning mowing? Would that nice old Southern man who spent his days napping and playing golf kill a "mannerless Yankee" over such trivialities?

  There was only one house left, the most important interview of all. Polly Winkler.

  The woman who answered the door was just as Nick had described her. Mousy, drab. She looked like she'd jump if Shea said boo.

  But like the others, she asked Shea in. And as with the others, when Shea told the widow that she thought Nick was innocent, she had the woman's attention.

  * * *

  Polly's kitchen door was locked, but using Shea's credit card, Nick opened it easily. Already Polly and Shea were discussing the murder. In this case, Shea was being more sedate, gentler than in the other interviews. This was, after all, the widow she was speaking to. Polly might not take kindly to the idea that someone was trying to clear the man who had been convicted of murdering her husband.

  The house had been completely repainted. It was white now, with a tasteful slate-blue trim. Polly didn't do her own yardwork; she hired a service. They had watched the team of young men tackle the yard yesterday, finishing up in no time and leaving behind an orderly lawn.

  Nick glanced around the kitchen as he listened. There was no sign of Gary Winkler in this room, and perhaps there never had been. It was all Polly. There were cookies on the counter, a collection of herb teas to the side, an artful arrangement of mismatched china cups and saucers. Above the sink, on a small shelf, was a small collection of medicine bottles. Aspirin, allergy medications, a prescription. Nick sidled closer to the sink to get a better look. Sleeping pills.