“I noticed. I just don’t understand why. Seeing as how you’re so easy to get along with,” Jack added dryly.
A snort of laughter escaped Hank before his face relapsed into its usual gloomy lines. “I should have put in more time at home when she was growing up.”
Jack shifted, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. He didn’t think Hank was the type to stand around jawing about his feelings. But you never could tell. “You can’t change what’s past.”
He was pretty sure the shrink had said that. Something like that anyway.
“She always seemed to be doing okay. Never any trouble, that girl. Not until he came sniffing around.”
Jack reached for the hose again to avoid answering. Maybe Jane had been a model daughter before Tillett. Or maybe Hank was kidding himself. In Jack’s experience, you didn’t see what you didn’t want to see.
Look at the way Jack had fucked up his marriage. He’d known Renee wasn’t happy. The signs were all there. Work . . . Well, they’d both always worked too many hours. And the sex had been good, at least until the very end. But there had been plenty of clues, if he’d been willing to see them—the calls she didn’t take, the simmering silences, the snide comments in front of their friends. He’d chosen to ignore them, and that was on him.
He’d never suspected his wife was fucking his partner, though. Don’t shit where you eat. And that was on them.
His hand flexed on the sponge. He could still feel the phantom throb of his knuckles where they’d connected with Frank’s jaw. Still remember the impact in his chest, betrayal blooming like blood from a gunshot wound.
He stared down at the sponge, dripping over the hood. He was going over and over the same spot, scrubbing at an invisible stain.
The inside phone rang, jerking at his attention.
Hank straightened from his post against the rail. “I got it.”
When Jack started this job, the one cop in a one-cop town, unanswered calls to the department were forwarded either to his cell phone or to his backup—Hank, if Hank was around, or the dispatcher in the county sheriff’s office. But there were three of them now. Jack had been talking to Nick O’Neal, head of the volunteer firefighters, about developing a coordinated emergency response, police, fire, medical. But that would demand a hell of a lot more sophisticated system than they had now.
Hank came out, his face creased in heavy lines. “That was Grady Real Estate. Somebody busted the air conditioner over at the bakery. Repairman’s saying it’s vandalism.”
Jack went still, his skin tightening. Lauren. “Everything else okay?”
“Fine. But Grady wants a police report so he can file an insurance claim.”
“Right.” Jack drew a careful breath. Don’t overreact. Vandalism was a common problem on the island, where big vacation homes sat empty half the year. “You want to take it?”
Since you’re so concerned about her ex. Jane was Hank’s daughter. It was her bakery. Nothing to do with Jack at all.
Was Lauren there?
“She won’t want me,” Hank said gruffly. “Luke’s on duty.”
“He’s on a call.” The Crowleys’ dog, barking again, disturbing the renters next door. Nothing that required much time. But maybe Luke’s absence would give Hank the excuse he needed to go.
Hank’s face set. “So he can handle it on his way back.”
Of course he could.
And in the meantime, Jane was fine. Lauren was fine. It was only vandalism. Nothing dangerous. Not like, say, getting caught in a bank robbery and being held hostage for three days.
The thought made his gut clench.
How was Lauren handling this? She was a crime victim. She might act like she was over it now, but you didn’t walk away from what she’d been through without it affecting you. Jack had been a sniper. He knew.
He dried his hands, reached for his keys. “I’ll check it out.”
* * *
THE BAKERY WAS hot as hell. Condensation dripped on the outside of the steel-and-glass refrigerated cases.
Behind the counter, Lauren was dripping, too. Sweat slid down her spine; soaked the band of her bra. She wiped her face with the back of her forearm.
The bakery had nearly emptied, the climbing temperatures inside driving patrons outside to the tables under the trees. Apparently the heat was more bearable outdoors away from the ovens. But the shift meant that she and Thalia were kept running, serving orders, bussing tables, as Jane dealt with the repairman out back.
Lauren scraped the last scoop of ice from the cooler, her mind leaping ahead. They couldn’t make drinks without ice. She glanced toward the kitchen door. If Jane didn’t come back soon, Lauren might have to close, if only to run out and buy more ice.
God, it was hot, a blanketing heat that smothered her in exhaustion.
The silver bells over the entrance jangled. Her stomach tightened like a fist. More than a year after the robbery, she still tensed sometimes at sudden entrances. She looked up, forcing a smile to her lips.
Jack stood in the door of the bakery wearing jeans and a damp white T-shirt, projecting an air of cool authority.
And she just . . . melted. Like the icing on the cupcakes.
Wow. Just . . . Wow. He looked different out of uniform, younger, tougher, more aggressive. Everything that was soft and weak and fluid inside her just flowed toward him, attracted by his power and sense of purpose. As if he could stamp her, mold her, shape her somehow into something stronger and more durable. He had all the confidence she lacked right now. How was she supposed to resist him? Did she even want to?
The jeans rode low on his narrow hips. The T-shirt molded to his heavily muscled chest. Beneath the thin white cotton, she could see the shadow of his body hair. She flushed all over as if she’d been scalded.
He came toward her with that fluid walk she admired so much, all contained power and masculine grace. Oh, God. She was abruptly aware that her face was hot and undoubtedly shiny. She probably stank, too.
Most individuals selected partners of comparable attractiveness. At her best, Lauren was, well, interesting-looking. And right now, she was not at her best.
Be cool. “Hi, Jack.”
Those black Italian eyes met hers. “Lauren.”
Save me, she thought, and then chided herself. He wasn’t here for her. “Jane’s in the back with the repairman. You can go out through the kitchen.”
He nodded once, his gaze sharp on her face, like he was waiting for something.
“She, um, she didn’t want to call you. But her landlord said she needed to get a police report so he could file an insurance claim.”
“Okay. Thanks.” But he didn’t move on. “You doing okay?”
His concern made her throat clog. She worked enough moisture into her mouth to swallow. “I’m fine.”
A smile touched his lips. “Because you look like you could use a cookie.”
Something inside her eased and bloomed into a smile.
His eyes warmed. “That’s my girl,” he murmured.
Her breath caught. Okay, he didn’t actually say that. She must have misheard him. Thattagirl, maybe?
He smiled again, a brief curve to that hard mouth, and walked away, leaving her hot and longing and bewildered.
“Crap,” Thalia said. “Are we out of ice?”
* * *
“I’LL STAY.” LAUREN squeezed Jane’s hand. Despite the sweltering heat inside the bakery, Jane’s fingers felt cold. “At least until Thalia gets back with the ice.”
Jane’s fingers tightened once, convulsively, before she pulled away. “I’ll be fine. You’ve done enough already. I probably have to close for the rest of the day anyway.”
Lauren pushed back her hair with her wrist. “What about tomorrow?”
Jane sighed. “I don’t know. The t
emperature will drop enough overnight that I can get some baking done, but there’s no way I can decorate cakes in this heat. And it’s going to be miserable in the shop.”
It was miserable now.
“I’ll be here,” Lauren said staunchly.
“It will be a light day.” Jane pressed her trembling lips together. “If we open at all.”
“I can still help out,” Lauren said. Although she didn’t want to take Jane’s money if there weren’t going to be any customers. “Or just, you know, hang out. If you want company.” If you need support.
Jane met her gaze, gray eyes soft and grateful. “Thanks.”
They weren’t friends. But they could be. It had been a long time since Lauren had connected with anyone outside the bubble created by the bank standoff. With someone who needed something from her besides a sound bite or a book.
“No problem,” Lauren said warmly. And it wasn’t. She wanted to help. Whether that help would be welcome or not.
“Jane.” She hesitated, trying to figure out her approach. They weren’t therapist and client. And questioning your boss about her potentially vengeful ex was definitely not in the employee handbook. “Do you have any idea who could have done this?”
Jane’s gaze dropped to the counter. She moved a glass a quarter of an inch to one side. “No.”
She was lying. But confronting her directly would only make her more defensive.
“I’m not judging. I want to help,” Lauren said honestly. Sometimes sharing the truth, even a small, personal truth, created trust between strangers. It had worked before with Ben. Ben, who was in prison now, so maybe that hadn’t worked out so well for him.
Not a positive thought. Think positive.
Jane’s lips parted, as if she might actually speak. And then her gaze caught on Jack, entering silently from the kitchen, and her lashes swept down again.
“Thanks,” she said. “But I’m fine.”
The breakthrough moment—if that’s what it was—slipped away. Lauren bit her lip in frustration.
Jack prowled closer, his black eyes alert. “Everything okay here?”
Jane raised her chin. “Yes. I was just telling Lauren she should go home.”
His gaze switched to Lauren. “You need a lift?”
She tilted her head. “That depends. Do I have to sit in the back of the patrol car?”
Black laughter leaped in his eyes like flames, sending flickers of warmth through her. “It’s my day off. You promise to be a good girl, you can sit up front. I might even let you play with the siren.”
Her heart thumped. She wanted to play. The flickers kindled and spread, heating her from the inside out.
But it didn’t feel right, lusting over the chief of police when Jane had just been vandalized. “I don’t want to take you away from your crime scene.”
“I’m done here. I need to get back to the office and type up my report.” He looked at Jane. “Grady has the case number. He’ll be able to file the claim today.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m giving you the phone number for Island Security Systems. They do alarm systems for a lot of local businesses. Sam Grady says they’ll give you a price break if you want to get something installed.”
Jane took the piece of paper. “Thanks.”
Jack tucked away his notebook. “Somebody from the sheriff’s department will be by tomorrow to process the scene. They’ll be out of your way before the repairman gets here.”
The paper crumpled in Jane’s grasp. “Is that really necessary? I mean, if the insurance company is paying for the damage—”
“It’s just routine,” Jack said evenly. “You got a problem with it, you need to take that up with your landlord.”
Jane’s mouth snapped shut.
“What was all that about?” Lauren demanded as she slid into the front seat of the department SUV.
Jack closed the passenger door—at least he hadn’t put his hand on top of her head as she climbed in—and walked around to the driver’s side. “Buckle up.”
She fumbled for the seat belt. “What’s the sheriff going to do, search for fingerprints?”
“That’s the idea.”
She raised her head to look at him in disbelief. “Seriously?”
“Guy did a couple thousand dollars’ worth of damage. Around here that constitutes a major crime.” Something that might have been a smile touched the corners of his mouth. “You’re not in the big city anymore.”
“Neither are you.” She studied his Great Stone Face, trying to read him. “Do you miss it?”
Jack started the engine without answering. The air-conditioning whooshed on. Lauren jumped as the dashboard blasted her with heat.
“What time did you come in this morning?” he asked.
She adjusted her vent, uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Nine?”
“You notice anything unusual?”
Her mouth twisted. “You mean, besides that it was getting really hot?”
“Any unfamiliar cars, any suspicious characters . . .”
She stopped fussing with the vent long enough to shoot him a disbelieving look. “Wait a minute. Did you just offer me a ride so that you could question me?”
“I offered you a ride because you look ready to fall over.” He reached between the seats and handed her a bottle of water. “Here.”
She blinked, off balance. “What’s this?”
“You’ve been working in the heat for hours. Drink.”
“Thank you.” She unscrewed the top, touched and taken aback by his care. It was so . . . sweet. So at odds with his hard-boiled appearance. Rescue me. She swallowed, searching for some defense against her own vulnerability. “You know, most plastic bottles end up in landfills or the ocean,” she announced suddenly. “Tap water is just as good for you and better for the environment.”
He looked at her sideways. “Have you tasted the tap water on the island?”
The air from the vents was cooling, evaporating the sweat on her forehead and between her breasts. Her spine wanted to melt into the deep leather seat. She forced herself to sit up. “The water at the inn tastes fine.”
“Probably filtered.”
“Oh.” This was one of the most inane conversations ever. But he was playing along, giving her time to recover. She was grateful for his patience. And the water. She swigged from the bottle. Licked her lips. “What about the bakery?”
Jack raised his gaze from . . . Was he looking at her mouth? “Same thing. Pretty much anyplace that caters to visitors is going to have filtered water.”
Well, that made sense. She drank some more, holding the water in her parched mouth, absorbing it into her tissues.
The inn was within walking distance of the bakery, a little over a mile, but the number of tourist cars and bicycles on the narrow road made the trip take much longer. She didn’t mind. The AC lapped her in comfort. She felt herself reviving like a plant out of the heat.
Jack sent her another dark, assessing glance. “You doing okay? No bad effects?”
She shook her head. “Thanks,” she said again. “I guess I was a little dehydrated.”
“I meant from the vandalism.”
She stared at him, shocked by his understanding.
She’d learned from experience that nobody—not the reporters or radio interviewers or her fellow students or her mother—really wanted to listen to Hostage Girl being insecure. They wanted her to be brave. They wanted her to inspire them. And then they wanted her to get over it, because anything else demanded too much of them.
“I’m fine,” she said, relieved because it was almost true. “I wasn’t even there when it happened.”
She wasn’t the one whose space, whose trust, had been violated. It wasn’t her trauma.
“So you didn’t see anything. Anybo
dy.”
She rolled the wet bottle between her hands. What could she say? How much should she tell him? Not her trauma. Not her secret, either. She wasn’t bound by client confidentiality in this case. But maybe she was bound by friendship? Jane had quite clearly avoided naming her ex as a potential suspect.
“There are people in and out of the bakery all the time. I couldn’t tell you who’s a regular or who’s just visiting or who . . . or if anyone is likely to cause a problem. You need to ask Jane.”
“Her ex ever drop by? Travis Tillett.”
Lauren bit her lip. Not so much of a secret after all. “Not today.”
Jack just looked at her, the way she would look at a client who was being evasive. She would look and wait and then say, I can’t help you if you don’t let me know exactly what’s going on.
What would help Jane?
Lauren didn’t know Jack well enough to trust him. But she could at least cooperate in his investigation. “He came in on Friday to see Jane. She didn’t want to talk then, but she didn’t want him coming by the house, either. She left with him. She was gone about an hour. An errand at the bank, she said.”
There, Lauren thought, relieved. She’d even managed that last bit—an errand at the bank—without a hitch, as if the words didn’t cause a blip in her heartbeat.
She hadn’t been inside a bank building since the robbery.
Jack didn’t say anything.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“What you said. Talk to Jane.”
That sounded promising. But . . . “You know, she may not want to talk with you.”
He made a noncommittal noise. Lauren used the same sound when she worked at the family clinic, an acknowledgment token, a signal to the client to continue. It was oddly reassuring to hear it from him. Like discovering they spoke a shared language.
She took a breath and forged ahead. “A lot of women are reluctant to report harassment to the police. Especially in domestic cases.”
He slid her a look. Amused? Annoyed? “You think I don’t know this? I’ve been a cop a long time.”
Carolina Blues Page 6
