Close To The Edge (Westen #2)

by Ferrell, Suzanne

  “Better?”

  “Mm-hmm, much,” was all she could manage. If she said any more, she’d either beg him to repeat the experience or cry tears of gratitude that he’d made her feel so good.

  He leaned forward, his chest brushing the sensitive nipples, and placed a gentle kiss on her lips. He teased her lips with his tongue then slid it over her jawbone up to her ear.

  “I’m still hungry,” he whispered into her ear, sending tremors across her body once more.

  He couldn’t be serious? As spent as she was, she doubted she could do it again right now, even if the entire free world depended on it.

  “I don’t think that’s possible right now,” she whispered back, even though she clenched herself around him where he remained inside her.

  He chuckled, and lifted his chest back off her. “Sweetheart, I meant I’m still really hungry…for dinner.”

  Even in the near-dark she felt the blush start at her toes and shoot up her entire body like a Roman candle. “Oh God. I thought… I mean… Oh.” She slapped her hands over her eyes.

  He chuckled again, nipping her lips with his own as he slid off her body. From between her fingers she watched him stride from the room in all his naked glory.

  He was magnificent. All sinewy muscles and arrogant male pride.

  And she’d made love to him. Or at least had sex.

  She couldn’t believe she’d just done that. With a man she’d known less than a week.

  What must he think of her?

  That I’m an insatiable sex kitten?

  Or desperate?

  She groaned and pulled the sheets up over her body and curled on her side.

  When he returned a few moments later, he stopped to pull on his jeans and a t-shirt. He brought her one of his own flannel shirts from the closet. “Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll go start the grill.”

  He leaned forward for another kiss before leaving.

  Nonchalant. That’s how he wanted to play it. Okay. She could be nonchalant, too.

  Grasping the shirt, she climbed out of bed and slipped it on. Taking a deep, steadying breath she rolled the sleeves up to her elbows and buttoned the front.

  So what if her fingers shook a little bit? She was nearly forty after all. Sex should be no big deal. True, it had been the best sex she’d ever had. Not that she’d been that experienced. Losing one’s virginity to the high school nose tackle, Adam “the moose” Bartholomew, and sleeping with the occasional boyfriend over the past twenty years didn’t really qualify her as sexually active. More like a sexual bystander. This time with Gage was definitely…different.

  At the end of the hall she found the restored Victorian bathroom and cleaned up as best she could. She glanced at her face in the mirror. Her mascara had smeared during either the crying jag or her hot wrestling match with Gage.

  Great. So much for looking like a sex goddess. What she needed now was something to scrub it off.

  A bar of soap lay in the soap dish on the sink. Don’t suppose he had anything gentler?

  She flipped open the medicine cabinet and searched through its contents. Toothpaste, shaving cream, razors, deodorant. No cold cream. Something odd caught her attention. Shoved back in the corner was a glass jar.

  What the heck? She pulled it out and studied the contents. The gold wedding band was obvious. The other thing inside was a mashed and mangled piece of metal.

  Oh, my God. She nearly dropped the jar. The metal must be one of the bullets that had left the scars all over Gage’s body. The ones she’d felt while holding him tight against her. Symbols of his shooting and a possible marriage.

  She sat down on the toilet seat—hard.

  Why hadn’t he told her he’d been married before? Or was he still married? No, she would’ve heard something about his wife, if he still had one, in the two days she’d been in this small town. Of that she was certain. So he must’ve been married once before, but not now. But why hadn’t he said something?

  Well, it’s not like she’d asked and he’d lied. And he was almost forty. At least she guessed he was her age. There were few never-married men or women their age, at least not straight ones. Besides, his past was his business. She hadn’t asked for strings when she’d begged him to make love to her, and he hadn’t given any either.

  Turning the jar she studied the contents.

  Why keep them stored together? Were they two separate events or connected in some way?

  One thing she knew for sure. The man didn’t want to talk about them. And he’d probably be pissed that she’d found this.

  Carefully, she slid the jar back where she found it and replaced the toothpaste in front of it.

  Somehow she’d go downstairs, have dinner with him and pretend she hadn’t found his secrets. She’d also pretend she was as carefree as him about having sex. So she’d think of it simply like a physical release to the things she’d seen today.

  She lathered the soap onto a washcloth and began cleaning the smeared makeup off her face.

  Yep. That’s what she’d do all right. Think of it as two people helping each other through a physical need.

  No big deal.

  Downstairs, she stopped in the doorway and watched him cleaning potatoes. His body, even clothed, would tempt any woman. She liked the way the jeans hugged his hips and thighs, the thickness of his arms in the t-shirt shouted all-male with every move.

  Her heart jumped and her nipples tightened just at the sight of him.

  No big deal, my ass.

  “Hope you’re as hungry as I am.” He glanced up and smiled at her without breaking stride on the spuds.

  Yes, I’m hungry, but meat and potatoes probably won’t cure what ails me. Nonchalant, remember? Keep it light.

  “Starving.” Focused on looking around the kitchen, she didn’t remember seeing any of it when he’d led her inside earlier.

  Unlike the upstairs bathroom, this wasn’t a Victorian remodel, but a vintage nineteen-fifties kitchen. Black and white linoleum tiles checkered the floor. The cupboards were painted white with chrome handles. On the wall hung a red Coca-Cola clock and signs advertising bottles for five cents. The table and stools looked like they’d come right out of a soda shop, complete with chrome edging.

  She walked over and ran her fingers in the ridges of the chrome along the edge of the table. “This is fabulous.”

  “Thanks. My dad loved the fifties.” He leaned onto the Formica counter as he explained. “He was a teenager then and collected stuff from stores and shops that closed over the years. When we moved here, he worked on making the kitchen what you see. The only modern conveniences are the stainless-steel appliances he added about five years ago. He always wanted a juke box, but none ever went on auction at a price he could afford on a sheriff’s salary.”

  “You grew up with this?” She fingered the stainless two-sided napkin holder and tall glass sugar dispenser on the table. Framing the doorway that led into another room were framed vintage record covers of Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis and several Motown R&B groups.

  “Yeah. For a few years as a cocky teen I resented his worship of old rock stars in favor of punk sounds. But with age comes wisdom. Dad really did impart some good taste into my life.”

  “You miss him, don’t you?” It really wasn’t a question. She saw how his eyes lingered on objects in the room and heard the pride in his voice as he spoke of his father.

  “Dad was the finest man I’ve ever known.” Gage turned and searched in the fridge, coming out with two steaks. “Now, you take a seat while I prepare you a feast.”

  “You want me to help?”

  “Nope.” From a drawer he pulled a pad of paper and pen and handed them to her. “I want you to write down everything you can remember about your sister’s client and his case. Don’t leave anything out, no matter how insignificant you might think it.”

  “You think it might have something to do with Harley’s death?”

  He nodded as he seasoned the steaks with sal
t and pepper. “Seems awful strange that you’re here to investigate some lien against a property, and the man who would’ve been in charge of making the supposed loan winds up murdered less than forty-eight hours later.”

  “You don’t think I have anything to do with it, do you?” She sat at the table, waiting for him to say just that.

  He winked at her, picked up a knife and started slicing the potatoes into long strips. “Sweetheart, if Harley was killed last night, I know exactly where you were, remember? If you’d even tried leaving that motel room I’d have known. The walls are that thin.”

  Heat shot into Bobby’s cheeks. Apparently she wasn’t the only one aware that a thin wall separated them last night. Had he had as many problems sleeping as she did?

  “Don’t look at me like that or neither one of us is going to get any dinner.”

  She blinked and realized she was looking at him like a hungry tiger stared at a newborn calf. “Don’t forget, I like my meat a little on the rare side,” she said with more sass than she really felt.

  “Why does that not surprise me?” He laughed.

  She smiled and relaxed. If someone had told her a week ago she’d be sitting in the kitchen of a man as sexy as Gage, flirtatiously chatting and making comments with double entendres, much less having had incredible sex with him, she’d have sent them packing to the nearest insane asylum.

  “So when did you first hear about the case?”

  She picked up the pen, trying to focus on the task he’d given her. As she made her list, she talked aloud to save time so he’d hear things as she remembered them. “Everything started three weeks ago when Chloe called for one of her regular chat sessions.”

  Both her sisters called on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis to keep her informed of how they were doing since she was as close as they’d come to having a parent in twenty years. But she suspected they also called to check on her. They feared she spent all her time hibernating in the townhouse she’d raised them in like some hermit. When she’d told them she’d taken and passed her PI licensure test, they’d both laughed until they realized she was serious.

  “Did she ask you to look in on the case?” Gage watched her from across the counter.

  Bobby shook her head. “No, she really did just call to talk. But I always ask about her work, and she started telling me about this case. She was sure it was simply a clerical error. Just in case there was something to the bank’s claim, she’d sent a letter to the bank a month earlier and had never received a reply.”

  “And her bosses were putting pressure on her to get the matter settled quickly.”

  “How did you know?”

  He shrugged, tossed the pan with the steak fries into the oven and picked up the steaks. “I know a lot about lawyers, both junior and senior partners.” His lip set in that I’m-done-talking-about-it line once more. Carrying the steaks to the back door, he paused a moment. “You write, I’ll fire up the grill.”

  Whoa. The man really didn’t like lawyers. Maybe he’d had a DA lose a drug case he worked hard on. That was a tried-and-true plot on all the crime shows she watched. She shook her head and focused her attention on writing down the events leading up to her trip to Westen.

  ***

  An hour later, after a bottle of wine, melt-in-your-mouth steak and crispy fries Gage sat back and studied the woman across from him. “You were very good over at Harley’s today.”

  “Yeah, right. I nearly keeled over when I saw him…like that.” She took a deep drink of her wine as if the image of Harley’s body still shook her nerves.

  “But you didn’t. And I have to tell you, you’re one hell of a detective. You’ve got instincts people trained for years haven’t acquired.”

  “Really? How?”

  Her eyes sparkled from his compliment. Or maybe it was the wine. Either way, he meant what he’d said. He might’ve doubted her abilities the first day he met her, but today she’d proved her mettle.

  “Figuring out the murder weapon, for one. Both Frank and I missed that.”

  “Thank you.” She blushed.

  He liked how she’d do that whenever he teased her or complimented her. He didn’t know women her age could still blush.

  “So how did your sister come to ask you to take on this case?”

  Bobby sipped her wine. She slid her tongue out to catch the drop on her lip and shrugged. “I begged.”

  He chuckled. “You begged?”

  “Yes, sir.” She grinned at him over the rim of her wineglass. “I told her this would be a simple case for me to get my feet wet on. I’d had my license about six months, but hadn’t gotten any field experience. This would be a relatively safe job and I could put on my resume that I’d worked for a prestigious law firm in Cincinnati. I can advertise it on a website and any publicity in the papers will help to get me more clients.”

  She wanted to solve the case to get her name in the papers. It was a logical business move, but it reminded him of Moira’s craving for media attention. The acid in his gut churned a bit harder.

  Was she the same kind of woman—a manipulator who didn’t care who she hurt on the way up the ladder? He remembered how kind and patient she was to Cleetus and Jason’s grandparents. Moira never would’ve treated them as Bobby had. He prayed he wasn’t wrong about Bobby.

  He finished his wine in one long drink. “And your sister bought this?”

  “Well, I did have to turn on the guilt, just a little bit.” She drained the last of the wine in her glass, too. “But I really can handle this case.”

  “It’s no longer a simple bank error, Bobby.” The suspicion that had nibbled at the back of his mind when they’d found Harley hadn’t gone away. “You know what that envelope in the trash means, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “That Harley Evans had the letter my sister sent about the lien at his house.”

  “Which could mean?”

  “That Harley, the friendly neighbor, staunch deacon, dependable employee had bank property at his house that he might’ve been hiding from someone—possible proof that something illegal is going on. And someone else killed him for it.”

  Damn, he loved the way the woman’s mind worked. It was a sexy thing. Combined with the things her ass made him want to do, she was one tempting package. A temptation he intended to enjoy, again.

  “So what do we do next?”

  No way could she read his mind. She had to be talking about the case. Trouble was, at the moment both his heads had no interest in Harley, the bank or Bobby’s career as a PI.

  “Frank said he’d have the autopsy report and fingerprint analysis for me tomorrow.”

  “What about DNA results?”

  “You watch too many TV shows. That can take six weeks if the state puts a rush on it. I hope to figure out what’s going on long before then.”

  She nodded. “So what else do we do?”

  “Tomorrow, I have a little talk with Harley’s boss and fellow employees down at the bank.”

  “Just you.”

  The hurt in her eyes kicked him right in the chest. For some reason this lady had gotten under his skin. Too bad he wasn’t interested in something more than good hot sex. And he’d learned his lesson long ago not to let civilians get messed up in an investigation. Bad shit was bound to happen. Might as well let her learn up front how things were going to be, no matter how much those dark eyes pleaded with him.

  “Just me. You’ve already gone in the bank today.”

  “But they think I was just there to open a bank account. A legitimate account, I might add.”

  He stood and started cleaning the dishes from the table. The idea of her walking around town alone with a killer loose twisted something deep inside him. “If you go in with me tomorrow, and if someone at the bank is responsible for the events that led to Harley’s death, your official presence as a PI in town will put everyone’s antennae on alert.”

  “But I’m not just a PI now. You made me a deputy today, remember?”
r />   Damn. She had him.

  “Right. And as your boss, I’m making an executive decision that you’re not going to the bank with me in the morning.”

  “So you want me to continue to just be office help?” She’d followed him around the counter to the sink, her eyebrows knit in puzzlement.

  “For now it might be best to keep your real reason for being in town between the few people who know—me, you and Cleetus.” He squirted soap over the dishes and turned on the hot water.

  “I’d sort of be undercover.”

  “Yes, you’d be undercover.”

  “When you worked narcotics, did you work undercover?” she asked, picking up a towel and taking the clean wet plate he handed her.

  “Yes. For the last three years before I quit.”

  “Did you like it?”

  The woman was far too smart and curious for her own good, and his. For a moment he considered her question. “I wanted to get the big dealers off the streets. Catching them in their own business. I liked that. Pretending to be someone I wasn’t. That was hard.”

  “Why did you quit?”

  “A case blew up in my face, literally. Someone close to me blew my cover. I was shot and left for dead.” He scrubbed the last plate, not wanting to see the look of pity on her face. He’d sworn he wouldn’t let another woman get close enough to hurt him.

  “That’s a pretty good reason to quit. I’m glad you’re here to teach me how to be undercover.”

  The cupboard behind him opened. The ceramic plates clanked as she put them back where they belonged. She’d given him space, accepted his shortened version without question. Just when he was sure he had her figured out, she did something else to impress him.

  He turned and trapped her against the counter between his hands. Leaning in close, he sniffed her. Flowers. Lemons. Clean. Woman. He rubbed his face against the soft skin of her neck and trailed his lips lightly up to her ear.

  “And would you like to get undercover with me?” he asked, letting his hands slide down and fill with the fullness of her round ass cheeks naked beneath the tails of his shirt. Damn, she’d left her panties in his bedroom.