CLINT'S WILD RIDE

by Linda Winstead Jones

  When Clint couldn't take any more, he stood, walked around the jumble of chairs and leaned slightly toward Mary.

  "Dance," he said.

  She looked up at him and smiled, but it wasn't a real smile. There was tension in the set of her neck, in the hardness in her blue eyes. It was a look that should have sent him running, but did not.

  "No, thanks," she said softly.

  Clint didn't budge. "Dance," he said in an even lower voice. "Or I make a scene here and now."

  Mary took a deep breath, excused herself with a smile and took his hand. She squeezed that hand too tightly as they walked away from the table.

  A slow song was playing on the jukebox. Something twangy about broken hearts. He took her in his arms and pulled her closer than she wanted to be. Since the song had been playing for a minute or two, they didn't have much time. He knew better than to think he had Mary in his arms for more than this one half dance.

  "What the hell are you doing?" she whispered.

  "I was just about to ask you the exact same question."

  Mary pursed her lips for a moment, then relaxed and smiled gently. She knew people were watching. "Blow this investigation for me, and I'll make you pay in ways you never imagined."

  He gave her a tight smile. "Sounds interesting."

  Even in the low light, he saw her blush. "You know what I mean!"

  "Do I?"

  "Clint…"

  He lowered his head and placed his lips close to her hear. "Let me help you," he whispered.

  "No."

  "You shouldn't be doing this alone. At least have the FBI send in backup. I can get a couple more people into the rodeo if necessary. We always need people for concessions and taking care of the animals…"

  "No!" she said, more stridently this time.

  He held her so close, he could feel her heart beat faster. Harder. Her breathing changed subtly. Something about his suggestion frightened or alarmed her.

  Why? It didn't make any sense. "Mary…"

  The song ended, and she broke away with a sigh of relief.

  * * *

  When had she begun to rely on Clint? Mary lay in the dark, in her own bed. Alone. Clint was on the other side of the wall, and damned if she couldn't feel him anyway. A wall between them, a confession she could not make, a relationship that had come together too quickly and much too strongly … and she felt him to her bones. Was he sleeping? Tossing and turning? Pacing?

  Rick had been a good guy, like Clint, but he hadn't been such a stubborn ass, and he certainly hadn't been such an overprotective, macho, interfering man.

  Was it possible that she could find two truly good men in one lifetime? It seemed too much to ask, too much to even hope for. When Rick had died she'd been so certain that was it for her. She'd found love, she'd embraced it, it hadn't lasted nearly long enough. Maybe love wasn't meant to last.

  Clint was going to ruin everything, with his talk about bringing in more agents. If he found out that she wasn't here officially…

  Work usually soothed her, took her mind off the messiness of real life. Mary turned her mind away from Clint and went over her list of suspects once again. They had all been very nice to her tonight, but no one had paid what she'd call unnatural interest. Once Clint had asked her to dance, they'd all taken a turn.

  Eugene was … enthusiastic. There was no other word for it. When that dance was finished, she had a good idea of what a bull rider felt like after he'd been thrown. Tony had wandering hands, but responded properly to a cutting glance. Brett had been a perfect gentleman, and a better dancer than she'd expected. Sam was a cutup, with a smile that surely broke hearts and a body that was almost as good as Clint's. He'd told her, as they danced, that if Clint hadn't already laid claim to her he'd ask her out himself. When she'd told him no one had a claim on her, he'd only smiled wider. How much did he know?

  Oliver Brisco, who remained at the top of her suspect list, had held her a little bit too close when they'd danced, and she could swear that once, just once, he'd taken a long whiff of her hair. She couldn't be sure. But he never crossed the line into inappropriate territory. When he held her tight, was he offering her a subtle reminder that he was stronger than she was? Maybe. The man had eyes that told her nothing. Deep, dark eyes that looked more like those of an animal than of a human being.

  How was she supposed to sleep, with those faces running through her mind? One of them had killed Elaine. Who? Even if she could dismiss her investigation, how was she supposed to forget that Clint was sleeping just beyond the wall?

  There were a few relaxation exercises she called upon when she couldn't sleep. Lying in the dark, she tried them now. Deep breaths, a clear mind, a pleasant picture. Roses. Sometimes she thought of roses. She didn't have time to grow flowers of any kind, and there certainly hadn't been any men sending her roses, but still … the mental picture of something so simple and beautiful soothed her.

  Right before she drifted off to sleep, another image entered her mind. Clint. Instead of disturbing and rousing her and making her angry all over again, that image soothed her as much as any rose.

  * * *

  Clint paced, staring at the solidly closed connecting door. He could pound on that door until Mary was forced to answer. He could make a lot of noise if he had to; he could see that everyone on this floor came running.

  He didn't.

  Something was wrong. Mary was hiding something from him, and he didn't like it. Tonight when they'd been dancing and he'd mentioned backup, she'd reacted more strongly than she should have.

  He knew her better than he'd ever known anyone, and in the depths of his soul he was certain something was wrong.

  Clint sat on the edge of the bed and lifted the phone from the nightstand. He dialed the number from memory.

  Dean answered on the second ring. "Sinclair," he said gruffly.

  "I woke you," Clint said.

  "It's almost three-thirty in the morning. Of course you woke me."

  Clint glanced at the clock by the phone. Two-thirty here, three-thirty in Atlanta. Either one was too late an hour to be calling anyone. "Sorry. I'll call back in the morning."

  "No," Dean said quickly, his voice no longer quite so gruff. "I'm already awake. What's up?"

  "Special Agent Mary Paris." Clint took a deep breath. This was a huge risk. It was the kind of interference Mary might never forgive. But what choice did he have? "You know people in the FBI."

  "Sure."

  "Think you could call around and see what you can find out about her?"

  There was a moment of silence. "What's going on?"

  "Nothing," Clint said quickly. "Okay, almost nothing. I just have this really bad feeling that she's not telling me everything."

  "I have a couple of good friends over that way. I'll see what I can find out."

  "Thanks," Clint said, feeling a rush of relief. If there was anything to find out, Dean could do it.

  "It might be Monday morning before I get in touch with anyone," Dean added.

  "That's fine." Clint shifted his weight on the bed. "Do me a favor and keep it low key. I don't want you stirring up a hornet's nest and causing problems for Mary. I just need to know what's going on."

  "Clint," Dean said, lowering his voice. "Is this thing with Agent Paris getting personal?"

  He could deny it, but why? If he had his way, before long everyone would know that things between him and Mary had gotten very personal. "Yeah."

  Dean let loose with his big brother sigh. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

  "Nope."

  There was a short pause. Was Dean trying to come up with an argument that might sway his youngest brother? In the end all he said was "Be careful. I'll call you next week."

  "Call me on the cell," Clint said. "We head out of here early Monday morning."

  "Good enough. Just remember to leave it on, will you?" Clint was notorious for tossing his cell phone in the glove compartment and forgetting about it for days at a time,
something his eldest brother did not understand. "Where are you headed next?"

  "Huntsville. I might take a day or two off and go home before the rodeo gets started, but I'm not sure that Mary will go for it." Time to make a confession. "And I'm not leaving her behind."

  They ended the phone call, and Clint fell back onto the bed. He wanted Mary here, he wanted her wrapped around him. He couldn't be certain she was safe unless he could see her, touch her. He wouldn't sleep well unless she was in the same bed, sharing a pillow and hogging the covers.

  If he blew this for her, she might never lie with him again. Never.

  * * *

  He lay in his bed, eyes wide open, heart pounding furiously.

  Mary. He'd touched her, danced with her, and she'd smiled at him. She was more beautiful up close than from a distance, more delicate and feminine. More fragile.

  The other woman, the one in the crowd, was almost completely forgotten. It would have been wrong to waste one of his precious kills on her. He had been hasty in selecting her, and it was good that fate had prevented him from following her to her car. She wasn't special.

  Mary was special.

  It was true he would have to break his pattern to take her, but perhaps it was time for a challenge. Time to test his intelligence, time to take another step. The others had been easy. Mary would not be easy.

  She would fight him. He'd felt the muscles beneath her baggy blouse as they'd danced. Yes, she was strong for a woman, but she was too small, too weak to fight him efficiently. He would win; he always did.

  He closed his eyes and imagined what it would be like. Mary. He hadn't been this excited about any woman since Kristin had been a part of his life. He had loved Kristin, he had craved her, he had been deliciously obsessed with her. Every waking moment had been filled with Kristin. In every dream, she was there. He had made her his whole world.

  In the end, she had discarded him, laughing at his inadequacies. Belittling him. Making him feel insignificant.

  He never should have told her how much he loved her. That had been the beginning of the end for them.

  No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't kill Kristin. He could never murder someone who had been so close to him. Suspicions would turn his way if he did.

  But Mary … Mary might be the next best thing.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  « ^ »

  She had planned to make the trip from Birmingham to Huntsville, a two-hour trek, with the twins. Clint wouldn't hear of it. Again, he threatened to make a scene if she didn't do as he commanded.

  This was going to have to stop. She couldn't allow him to hold what he knew over her head indefinitely! He had the power to blow her cover, to send her quarry under so deep she'd never find him.

  "We can go back to the ranch for a couple of days," he said, his eyes on the highway before him. "Some of the rodeo workers will be in Huntsville and setting up by tomorrow morning, but most take a day or two off between shows."

  "I can't take any time off," she said. "You know that."

  "Everybody needs a little downtime now and then," he argued in a sensible voice. "Even you."

  She wasn't a big believer in vacations or days off. Her job helped her to forget. Working was her crutch, her place to hide.

  "We need to talk," she said tersely.

  "Go right ahead," Clint responded casually, as if everything between them was perfectly normal. What was he thinking? Nothing between them had ever been normal.

  In her mind, she had this speech well rehearsed. Would anything she said make a difference? She had to try. "You have got to stop this."

  "Stop what?"

  His casual response made her angry. "Getting in the way, for one thing! Every time I turn around, you're there. Watching. Staring at me. Following me around as if I need a bodyguard."

  Again, he remained calm. "You do need a bodyguard."

  She turned her head to gaze out the window. Trees, tall and green, lined the interstate. It was summer, the trees were in full leaf, and it seemed as if there was nothing else anywhere near but the cars Clint passed. On a Monday morning, traffic was sparse. What kind of argument could she offer, besides threatening to have Clint arrested?

  It had been right to bring things between them to a halt. Even though she missed being with him, she knew ending it had been the right thing to do. Clint distracted her. He made her think that she was missing something … something like a life beyond her job. It would be too easy to fall into his arms every night, hide in his bed, let him hide in her body… It would just be too easy…

  The cell phone he'd placed on the seat between them rang, and he answered quickly. Mary's first thought was of Katie and Wes, her second of the very pregnant Jayne Sinclair. Since Clint didn't chat casually on his cell phone, she figured that whatever this call was about, it was important.

  All she could hear, of course, was Clint's side of the conversation.

  "Hello … what?" His eyes cut her way, his jaw tensed. "No. Not yet. I'll call you back."

  He turned off the cell phone, glared at her and without warning pulled the truck sharply off the road. She grabbed onto the door handle to keep from being tossed around, his change of direction was so fierce.

  "Out," he said curtly as the truck came to a jerking halt.

  For a moment, Mary thought he actually intended to leave her stranded on the side of the road … then he turned off the engine, exited from the driver's side and rounded the front of the truck to stalk into the tall grass on the shoulder of the road, pushing his fingers through his hair in obvious exasperation.

  Mary threw open her door and stepped down. "What's wrong?" Again, she thought of Jayne and Katie and their babies.

  When Clint turned to face her, she knew the pregnant women had nothing to do with him pulling the truck off the road.

  He stared at her, hard, for a long moment. "I understand you're on an extended leave of absence from the FBI."

  She felt the blood drain from her face. All along, she had known that Clint wouldn't help her if he knew she was pursuing this case on her own. "I can explain."

  "You can explain," he repeated, taking a long step toward her. "You're risking your life hunting down a sick serial killer on your own. You've put your life on the line for a man who rapes and then carves up or strangles his victims, a butcher you called him, and you stand here and tell me you can explain?"

  Her only way out of this was to reason with him, rationally and calmly. "I had a theory about the killings, but no one would believe me. I didn't have enough for the authorities to admit that they'd put two innocent men in prison. So yes, I'm on a leave of absence. I'm spending my vacation time trying to find a serial killer. It doesn't change the fact that I'm right, or that if I don't find this guy, he's going to kill again."

  She could see that Clint was not moved. "It's over. I'll see Oliver as soon as we get to Huntsville and I'm going to tell him everything. You're out," he said, leaning down toward her.

  Her heart began to kick. She wanted to argue rationally, she wanted to remain cool and detached. But inside, she was anything but detached. "Don't do this to me," she whispered. "Please."

  "I fell for that sweet please once, darlin', but it won't happen again."

  "Why are you doing this to me?" Panic welled up inside her. She was so close. She'd never be this close again. This was her chance, her only chance.

  "Why?" Clint repeated, growing angrier as the moments ticked past. "You want to know why it's important to me that you keep yourself safe? Because I think I love you!" he shouted.

  She flinched.

  "Not what you expected me to say, I'm guessing," he muttered in a calmer voice.

  "It's just … not a good time."

  "Not a good time." He laughed hoarsely and ran his fingers through his hair again. "Is there ever a good time to have your life turned upside down and inside out?"

  "I guess not."

  He laid one hand on her face and made h
er look him in the eye. "I can't let you do this. I can't." His other hand reached out to touch her stomach, very lightly. His fingertips brushed against her blouse and the skin beneath. "A couple of nights ago, I was inside you. No protection, nothing between us. Just you and me. What if we made a baby?"

  Mary shook her head. "That's unlikely," she said quickly. "It was just that once."

  "Unlikely, maybe, but not impossible," Clint argued. "What if I let you continue and something happens, and it's not only you I lose but our baby, too?"

  Another wave of panic swelled inside her. "There is no baby!"

  "You don't know that," he whispered. "Maybe I've been spending too much time around Katie and Jayne. I've never given much thought to babies before."

  She shook her head. "We can't talk about babies, Clint. And you can't start shouting orders at me. Back off and let me do my job."

  "No," he said in a firmer voice. "I can't stand back and let you put yourself in danger!"

  "It's my life!"

  "It's mine, too."

  Her world was falling apart, one piece at a time. Everything she wanted was so close, and Clint was going to ruin it. "You can't do this to me," she whispered.

  "I can." He turned his back on her and started to walk away.

  "No!" She ran for Clint, threw herself at him and knocked him flat on the ground. Since she had the element of surprise on her side, she managed to knock the air out of him. They struggled, briefly, and he ended up on his back, on the ground, and she straddled him. Her every breath was deep as she tried to push her panic down. A semi flew past, and a rush of warm wind washed over them both.

  "You don't understand." Her words were caught on the wind that died as quickly as it had come.

  Clint didn't try to push her off, he didn't tell her that he didn't care to understand. He wrapped one hand around her wrist, manacled her with gentle, firm fingers, and said, "Explain it to me."

  She'd never said the words out loud. They'd been in her mind, in her heart, but she'd never spoken about this to anyone. Mary stared down, looking into Clint's green eyes. They were nice eyes, kind eyes. Was there any truth in what he said? Love. Was it a word he'd use to control her? Or was there a touch of the truth in his angry words? She wasn't ready to say the words out loud, might never be ready … but there was a very good chance she was falling in love with him, too.