Tempting the Devil

by Potter, Patricia;

  Dark brown eyes met hers. She remembered them, remembered the lean body and arresting face of the man who had intrigued her as he’d stood on the fringes of the press conference two days earlier.

  And his dark eyes were just as piercing and hard as they had been then.

  chapter seven

  “It’s you,” Robin blurted out in what she immediately realized was not one of her more brilliant moments.

  “I hope it’s me,” he replied with just the barest hint of a smile. “Are you all right?”

  She tried to put some weight on the leg. A jolt of pain ran through it, and—for a second—fear struck that she might have injured it again. She grasped his hand for support.

  The ache faded. She breathed again. She’d already started putting a small amount of weight on her leg without the brace. But very, very carefully. Another break could be crippling for the Humpty Dumpty leg, and she feared for an instant that she’d twisted it as she started downward.

  She felt the strength in his hand, in his body, as one hand stayed at her elbow. Heat from his body darted through hers, and she seemed to absorb some of his strength. For a moment she found herself leaning into it, something that startled her. She’d worked damned hard to restore her sense of independence after the accident, usually spurning attempts to help. She could do everything herself, a resolve made especially strong after lying immobile and helpless for too many months.

  “Miss? Are you alright?” he repeated.

  She forced herself to reply. “I … think so. Except for feeling rather foolish. And awkward. Thanks for rescuing me.”

  Her gaze caught his. He was as attractive as she’d remembered, especially now that concern had replaced the disapproval that she’d seen in his face at the press conference. He really had very nice eyes when they weren’t cold and wary.

  She desperately tried to regain her dignity. His hand was still on her arm. He was close. Very close. She smelled the slightly tangy aroma of aftershave.

  “You’re welcome,” he said in a soft drawl that was singularly sexy. “And you shouldn’t feel foolish. This is rough ground.” He released her hand, though he kept his left hand around her arm.

  He’d neatly avoided reference to her leg.

  “I noticed you at the press conference,” she said. Still not very bright. But the words had popped out like a jack-in-the-box.

  He merely nodded.

  She felt like a fool. Worse yet, a besotted fool. She balanced herself and straightened, ignoring the fact that her legs, both of them, wanted to fold under her. Something must have shown in her face, because his hand tightened around her arm.

  “I’m okay,” she said, though she wasn’t. She didn’t know why she found him disturbingly attractive.

  She met his gaze, then she tried to dismiss the impact of him. “I’m Robin Stuart,” she said, reaching out to shake his hand. As she did, her purse went spinning off her arm. She closed her eyes as belongings went skittering over the ground. Her notebook. Wallet. Pencils and pens. Lots of pencils and pens. She didn’t even want to think what other items had tumbled out.

  She wished she could ignore the spilled contents of her purse, but her notes were on the ground. Along with her recorder. She couldn’t risk them getting into wrong hands.

  She backed away from his arm and did one of her inelegant balancing acts, dropping to her good knee and letting the one in a brace stretch out. She would have a devil of a time standing again, but she reached out and grabbed the two most important items.

  Her companion stooped down and started gathering pencils and pens, dumping them into her purse before holding it out to her for the notebook and recorder. Then he reached down and pulled her to her feet.

  “You are a good Samaritan today.”

  “I think that’s the first time anyone has called me that,” he said.

  “Then who are you? Press? Law enforcement? Interested citizen?” She was pretty sure he wasn’t the latter. But she didn’t want him to disappear again. Not only because of the unprecedented effect he had on her, but because he’d appeared once more at an event related to the murders.

  Another slight twist of his lips. So slight she thought she might have imagined it. “Ben Taylor.”

  “What is Ben Taylor doing here?”

  “Paying respects.”

  “Are you law enforcement?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

  He was avoiding answers. Why? She was in full reporter mode now. “Local? State? Federal?”

  “FBI,” he said reluctantly. He didn’t wish to identify himself. But then why not? He had as much reason to be here as all the other law enforcement.

  “Are you here officially?” she asked.

  He released her arm but the warmth of his touch lingered.

  “No,” he said softly. “As I said, I’m paying my respects.”

  “Why were you at the press conference?”

  “Personal. It was my day off.”

  “Did you know any of them?”

  “No, but they were fellow cops.”

  Her gaze locked on his, and she wondered whether he felt the same little jump in the stomach as she did. Lord, but his face was arresting. Hard. But the shock of dark hair that fell over his forehead lessened the severity. Didn’t FBI agents have short, cropped hair? Or had those days passed?

  He was wearing a dark suit, just like so many of the other mourners who weren’t in uniform. His eyes were even darker than she remembered but every bit as flinty again.

  She took a step back. His proximity was too disturbing, too intense.

  She wasn’t sure he felt it as well until she saw a sudden confusion in his eyes, a momentary awareness. Then his eyes shuttered. “Sure you’re okay now?”

  “I’m sure.” She wasn’t. She was altogether too confused about how totally out of character she felt. She who prided herself on her professionalism and cool demeanor.

  He studied her for a moment, then gave her a short nod and started to turn.

  “Do you think the FBI will come in officially?” she asked before he could leave. Her mind had started functioning again, and the questions he’d aroused in her demanded answers. She started to see the lead of her next story in her head. The FBI has taken an interest in the murder of three Meredith County officers.

  He turned back to her. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “I’ve been told that,” she admitted with what she hoped was a disarming smile.

  He didn’t respond to it. “I’m not here for any reason other than to pay my respects to fellow law officers.”

  “I would think the local police would welcome help from the FBI.”

  He shrugged again.

  She didn’t want him to go. For several reasons. One was a story. The other was more personal. He intrigued her in a way no man ever had before. “Thanks again. I would have hated sprawling across the ground in front of everyone. I’m not very graceful, right now.”

  That twitch of his lip eased the severity of his face.

  “You do all right, Ms. Stuart,” he said. Then he walked away, leaving an odd void where he had stood, a loss of energy, of presence. She watched as he walked away quickly, heading toward a group of officers. He didn’t look back, but then why should he?

  He probably hadn’t felt the same warm sizzle that she had when he touched her and held her a moment longer than necessary, or was that just her imagination?

  Other than those few seconds, he’d demonstrated a marked lack of interest in her.

  She wondered whether it was her questions. She was not a police reporter. She’d not come in contact with the FBI before. Perhaps it had been a normal reluctance to talk to reporters.

  Or maybe he wasn’t supposed to be here. He’d certainly slipped away quickly from the press conference.

  She scrounged through her purse and found the notebook she’d dumped into it. Ben Taylor, she scrawled in large letters. As soon as she returned to the office she would call the
police reporter and see if he knew Agent Taylor, then she would do a computer search.

  Robin placed a new tape in the recorder and turned it on. Dismissing the pain in her leg, she limped over to where the other media had been herded. She’d been standing much too long, but she feared she couldn’t hear the service if she went to her car. The heat, too, was draining. There was no shade, and the sun beat down on them.

  Music started inside the church and was broadcast outside. A hymn she didn’t recognize. Then a strong, rich voice: “Dear friends, we join in grief to honor two …”

  She jotted down some notes even as the recorder ran. Words that made an impact. Then she stopped. Listened. Remembered the words being read, “Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

  Then came the lonely mournful cry of the bagpipes with “Amazing Grace.”

  Tears welled behind her eyes. She hadn’t realized it would hit her like this.

  Embarrassed, she wiped a tear away. She glanced around. She saw a few other wet eyes among the media but not that many.

  She watched the mourners leave the church for the small graveyard to the side. The graveside service was to be private, family only, and county officers started shepherding others away. She saw Sandy. He stopped when he saw her, and she noticed his red eyes as he stared at her for the briefest of seconds. Then he walked quickly to a squad car with another deputy.

  She waited, though, until she saw Ben Taylor leave the church, glance at the media with a frown, then stride down the road, apparently to where he’d parked.

  Emotionally drained, she limped over to her car. Perspiration trickled down her back. She turned on the air-conditioner and leaned back in the seat, letting the squad cars and motorcycles go first. She thought about Sandy and Ben Taylor and all the officers who attended the service.

  Most of all she thought about the families. The wives who would have a lonely bed tonight and children who wouldn’t have a father to tuck them in, and parents who wondered why their children died before they did.

  Then she continued to write the story in her head.

  The plaintive sound of a bagpipe bade two Meredith County police officers a final farewell.

  The familiar salute to fallen warriors followed a quote from John Donne’s Meditations: “… I am involved in mankind: and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls: it tolls for thee.”

  They tolled proudly for Jesse Carroll and Kell Anderson, two of the three slain officers who were memorialized today at a small white chapel as hundreds of their fellow officers from throughout the country held quiet vigil.

  She would change that to three in the later edition.

  One more funeral to go.

  Ben Taylor cursed his luck as he left the church and saw Robin Stuart glance his way.

  Damn but there was something about her.

  He couldn’t figure it out. He didn’t trust reporters. He certainly didn’t like them, especially pushy ones, and she was certainly that.

  But there was something about the blush that reddened her cheeks and the subsequent quips when she fell that appealed to him. She was gutsy and funny and self-deprecating. And her eyes were so damn alive. They fairly danced with curiosity and energy and life. Something he hadn’t felt in too long.

  Robin Stuart. He’d been reading her stories.

  She was good. Most reporters—print and electronic—had just repeated the ten versions of no comment that were coming from official sources. Not her. She obviously knew how to ask questions.

  Surprisingly, she’d ruined his concentration, something few people did. He’d been studying faces, body language. But he hadn’t seen anything that spiked his instincts.

  And then out of nowhere she was next to him, stumbling, and he’d reached out to catch her, never expecting that quick contact would send a rush of need through him.

  Sex. That was all. He’d been too long without a woman. He had no intention of ever letting anyone get close to him again, or for himself to get close to another woman. He’d destroyed one. He wouldn’t do that to another.

  He decided not to attend the second funeral. As Holland said, they could get raw film from the television stations. He wanted to track down the owners of the property.

  Sympathy wouldn’t do a damn thing for the dead cops and their families.

  Only results would. Only justice.

  Racked with guilt and fear, Sandy left the second of the funerals.

  It could have been his widow standing with her arm around their son.

  It could still be.

  He’d heard something he shouldn’t have heard. He didn’t think anyone knew he’d been listening when he overheard Danny Evans, the dispatcher coming on duty, and Deputy Brett Schroeder talking about something taking place that night at the old Morgan place. “If any calls come in from that area, call me. Don’t call in any of the other deputies.”

  “How much this time?” Evans had asked behind the half-closed door to the locker room.

  “The usual. The boss always takes care of us.”

  Sandy had walked away then, not wanting to hear more.

  The boss.

  Could have been the sheriff. Could have been any number of people.

  Hell, he’d been around long enough to know that the sheriff took care of his friends. Some people just didn’t get tickets. Bootleggers who still existed in the county were warned before the feds reached them; the feds knew if they wanted to catch anyone not to tell the sheriff first. Some kids got away with almost anything as well, because their folks were prominent or monied or politically helpful. He knew that some deputies took payoffs to look the other way when bars held poker games in back. He’d taken a few dollars himself. Nothing major, he’d told himself. Just a little extra to look away when he found a small marijuana patch.

  But murder? Of cops?

  The sheriff’s department had been the first to arrive on the scene of the murders. He’d been among them when the call came in. He’d seen the carelessness with which they handled the crime scene. He wasn’t sure it was completely due to ineptness.

  If he said anything, he knew his career would be finished. The sin of betrayal would not be overlooked. He could never get a decent job again.

  If he lived beyond the telling.

  Three other cops were already dead. Fear in the past few hours had become a growing, poisonous vine inside, strangling the human parts of him. He knew now that men he worked with had been at least partially responsible in some way for the murders.

  Perhaps even the sheriff.

  He didn’t know how long he could continue working there. Yet an abrupt resignation would be too dangerous. And what would he do for a job? He had a family. He had a high school diploma and nothing more. He loved police work.

  Move? If he quit, the sheriff would want to know why; he didn’t like losing people. Would he get a good reference, or would the only job he knew be closed to him forever?

  And his family? Cleo would not want to leave the county. Her mother was here. Her sisters. Her job. His extended family. She loved family, lived for it.

  Yet how could he live with himself if he didn’t speak up? The crime scene was virtually clean of any evidence and what there was had been destroyed. The team of investigators from the police department and sheriff’s office had no leads, not as far as he knew, and they were not bringing in the FBI.

  His head ringing with doubts and guilt and questions, he checked in with the dispatcher. He looked at his watch. He had just enough time to go home, have dinner with his family, and return in time for roll call.

  That evening, Robin returned to Charlie’s Pub. It was after eight. She was emotionally drained from the funerals and the story she’d just completed. It had some of her heart in it, and the city editor said he would run it on page one.

  Some of her heart?

  Too much of it.

  She’d fel
t much too much today to be comfortable. Reporters were supposed to be onlookers, neutral observers.

  But too many memories clouded her view.

  Drained. But she couldn’t relax. Along with the emotional overload, there was also adrenaline surging through her as it always did on a big story and after the rare occasion of knowing she’d written a good story. She usually never thought a story was good enough.

  Tonight she needed company, human rather than feline. Friends. Other reporters.

  She maneuvered her way next to the police reporter and ordered a beer, the beverage of choice during these after-hours sessions, and listened as the others discussed the upcoming governor’s race.

  She turned to Bob Greene, the police reporter. “Do you have much to do with the FBI office here?”

  “It doesn’t have much to do with us,” he replied. “There’s the occasional press conference when they want to brag about something. Other than that, it’s nearly impossible getting anything from them.”

  “Have you ever met a Ben Taylor?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. Why?”

  “He was at the press conference the other day and then at the first funeral today.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. Cops from half the country attended those funerals. They do that. By the way, that was a great story today.” He said the last as if it pained him. She knew he wanted the story himself.

  “But at the press conference?”

  “You think they’re in the investigation?”

  “If they’re not, I think they might be trying to nose their way in.”

  “I’ll check around,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  She listened for a while, finished her beer, and headed for her car. She’d made a rule a long time ago. One drink if driving. Preferably one over a very long period of time.

  Daisy would be waiting.

  It was ten when she reached home. She unlocked the door and went inside. She looked for messages on the answering machine and heard several hang-ups. She didn’t recognize the number that went with them. She flicked off the machine for the night. It answered at two rings and it usually took her longer than that to get to it.