by Maggie Price
“Which,” Josh continued, “could be why the peeper showed up on your balcony the following night.”
Regan did a double take. “You think O’Toole’s the Sundown peeper?”
“I think it’s possible.”
She blew out a breath. “What about the lightbulb from the fixture on my balcony? Did Decker get any prints?”
“No.” Josh handed her the bowl of lemon juice. “The guy wore gloves.”
“Too bad,” she said, then checked the juice. “You did good, McCall. No seeds.”
“I’ve been performing culinary chores all my life.”
“Is that so?” Regan asked while adding juice to the powdered sugar. She retrieved a wooden spoon, began stirring.
“It is. Mom didn’t want us to starve so she made sure all of us kids knew our way around the kitchen.” He leaned a hip against the counter. “There wasn’t much danger of starving for Bran, Nate and me.”
“Because you learned to cook?”
“No, we learned early to bribe our sisters into feeding us. Especially Morgan. She’s not only a cop, she’s an awesome cook.”
“What did you bribe her with?”
His mouth curved. “Boys.”
“You bribed your sister with a guy?”
“That’s right.” Josh crossed his arms over his chest. “Her first crush was on my pal, Stan Scoggins. She had it so bad that all it took was Stan rumpling her hair and grinning while he told her he loved her cooking. In no time she’d whip up some killer dessert for us. Then Stan and I would go off and ignore her until we got hungry again.”
Regan laughed. “That’s mean.”
“That’s being a brother.”
She felt a pull inside her, as sensual as a touch, as tempting as a kiss. The love she heard in Josh’s voice when he talked about his family attracted her every bit as much as his toughly handsome face.
Watching her, he smiled, a slow movement of lips that was both arrogant and charming. Smiled, she thought, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“Come to think about it,” he said, “I’ve had a lot of success getting women to cook for me. Like now.”
“I’m cooking for Etta, slick,” Regan said as she continued stirring. “Not you.”
“This time,” he murmured. Reaching out, he tucked her hair behind one ear.
When his knuckles grazed her cheek, Regan shivered. She knew it was something more than just his touch that warmed her blood. There was an undercurrent of emotion that she felt whenever he was near her. If she wasn’t careful, there’d be a time it would simply sweep her away.
Wanting to focus on something else, she asked, “So how does a guy who got busted for skiing naked wind up working in Sex Crimes?”
He raised his brows. “You thinking along the lines of ‘it’s harder to catch a thief if you’ve never stolen anything?’”
“Maybe.”
“Sorry to blow your theory, but I’ve never been a sex fiend on the prowl. It just happened that when I got promoted to detective, the only opening was in Sex Crimes.” He sniffed the air again. “Does your lemon tea bread taste as great as it smells?”
“It’s about as good as getting a big hug from your grandma. Makes you feel all happy inside.” Regan froze, midstir. The comment had been automatic, said without thinking. And brought the emotions she’d been battling for days swarming dangerously close to the surface.
“Regan?”
When she didn’t answer, Josh settled a hand on her shoulder. “What is it?”
She wavered against the urge to shrug him off, to add another lie to the myriad ones she’d told over the past year. Yet, the memory had been so intense, so sudden, so heart wrenching.
“This was my mother’s recipe,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I used to sit in the kitchen and watch her make the bread. And she always gave me the first piece because she said she wanted me to feel happy inside. To always be happy.”
And she had been years later when she baked the same bread for the man she loved. Since she’d gone on the run, she’d had none of Steven’s things to touch and hold and weep over. She hadn’t dared let herself think of him too much, and now she discovered she couldn’t quite capture his face, or the sound of his voice.
Josh took the spoon out of her hand, laid it aside. He settled his hands on her shoulders, shifted her to face him. “Tell me about your mom.”
She looked away. Talking about any part of her past could open a door into who she was. Still, standing there, surrounded by the warm scent of the bread that brought back so many memories overwhelmed her. After a year of running, she could no longer hide from what was inside her, every minute of every day.
“She worked in a bakery,” Regan began. “When I was little she’d bundle me into the car at about three in the morning so she could get to work in time to make doughnuts.”
“What about your dad?”
“He died when I was a baby. It was just Mom and me. She was my best friend.”
“Was?”
“She died of cancer two years ago,” Regan said, her throat tightening against the unremitting ache of her loss. She had met Steven during her mother’s last hospital stay. Over time they’d fallen in love. And Payne Creath had killed him. Then her paramedic partner, Bobby.
Lifting her gaze, she stared up at the man whose strong hands now gripped her shoulders. Compassion played across his face, softening those dark eyes.
“I haven’t talked about my mother in a long time. Not since…”
“You went on the run.”
“I shouldn’t have told you. I don’t know why I did.” When she tried to shrug away, Josh tightened his grip.
“Think maybe it’s because there’s something between us? Something that goes deeper than physical attraction?”
It wasn’t the response she wanted or expected. The world was hard and cruel and unpredictable, and she wasn’t going to make things worse by letting him know she was desperately afraid he was right. Acknowledging that would only make things harder when she left. And she would leave, as soon as Etta healed.
She gave her head a derisive shake. “Our libidos are singing some elemental duet, is all. A common occurrence between people who haven’t known each other a week.”
“Feels like it’s been a lot longer. And after last night, there’s no denying something’s got a hold of both of us. Something more complicated than that elemental duet.”
When the blood began to hum in her ears, she raised her hands, curled her fingers around his wrists. “That doesn’t matter. Neither of us can let that matter.” She had to use all of her self-control to keep the plea out of her voice. “I’ve told you all I know about O’Toole, so you should go. You gave your word you’d keep your distance.”
“Not exactly.”
“You said—”
“I said I’m not in the habit of forcing women, so you didn’t need to worry about me keeping my distance.” He lifted a shoulder. “That was a statement, not a promise.”
“You’re playing games.”
He dipped his head, his mouth hovering just above hers. “I felt you flame like a rocket in my arms, then spent the rest of the night with thoughts of you churning in my head.” His voice was as low and intimate as if he were whispering words of seduction. “Where a woman’s concerned, that’s a first for me. I intend to find out why. No way in hell is this a game.”
“What happened between us was…” Exquisite, she thought, feeling heat rise up her neck into her face. If she thought it would help, she would have begged him to go. “I told you why nothing more can happen between us.”
“Because the guy who abused you is dangerous. And if he finds you, he might come after me.”
“If he finds me, he will come after you.”
Josh kept his eyes locked on hers. “If,” he repeated. “Last night you said he doesn’t know where you are. How can you be sure?”
Regan’s thoughts flashed to Langley. The only
peace of mind she had was in knowing the P.I. was observing Payne Creath and would e-mail her if the homicide cop left New Orleans.
“I’m having him…watched.”
“So, we can consider the coast is clear for now.”
She tightened her fingers on his wrists as if holding back the strength of longing that threatened to weaken her resolve. “That doesn’t matter—”
“Have you ever seen a moonstar, Regan?”
His sudden change of subject had her shaking her head. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Go with me tonight so I can show you.”
“I’m working tonight.” She stepped back from him. In her mind, the distance was much wider than the simple movement.
As if reading her thoughts, Josh closed the space between them. “When you get off, then.”
“I have to check on Etta.”
“Fine, come home and do that. I’ll wait for you in my car. All you have to do is walk across the lawn, step around the hedge. It’ll be dark, no one will know we’re together. No one will see us.”
“Josh—”
He held his palms up toward her. “No touching,” he said. “No kissing. I just want to share something wonderful with you. Just you.”
She tried to think, consider the consequences while temptation rose inside her like a gilded god from the sea. Caught between common sense and feelings, she didn’t know what to do.
Turning to the counter, she reclaimed the wooden spoon with a hand that wasn’t quiet steady and began drizzling glaze over the lemon tea bread. She knew whatever it was about Josh McCall that called to her should frighten her, but right now it just left her…defenseless. And so very tempted.
“I have to think about it,” she said without meeting his gaze.
“The decision’s yours, Regan. I’ll be in my car, waiting for you.”
Chapter 8
Payne Creath munched on a sugar-covered beignet while he strolled through Jackson Square. Dressed in a lightweight suit, gold detectives’ badge clipped to his belt, he mixed with the tourists braving a typical New Orleans summer day, the humidity almost as high as the temperature. With his internal radar pinging, the heat was only a nebulous irritant.
Someone was watching him.
Creath had no doubt he was under surveillance, although he had yet to spot his watcher. Hadn’t figured out who had closed in on him.
He just knew someone had.
The feeling first hit him three days ago when his innate cop instinct sounded a warning. He had learned long ago that when a smoke alarm went off, that meant there was smoke somewhere. Even if it was the kind that couldn’t be seen, it was still there.
As was his observer.
The minute he’d felt the surveillance he stopped talking to his informants, to his acquaintances, to other cops. He was living in a self-imposed pool of isolation, but he didn’t know why. He would find out. Eventually.
Meanwhile, he spent as much time as he could out in the open, waiting for the watcher to show himself.
Or herself.
After finishing the beignet, Creath reached into the plastic bag he habitually carried in his pocket, retrieved a peppermint, unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. Beneath his suit coat, he felt the comfortable weight of the Ruger holstered against his left ribs. He paused near one of the square’s itinerant artists whose hands flew across a pad as he sketched a caricature of a sloe-eyed blonde with a hotly painted mouth.
The blonde’s murderous-red glossed lips threw a mental switch, shooting Creath back to his helpless, defenseless childhood. To the hours he’d endured in the dark closet. Day after day, year after year spent breathing air that held a woman’s vile musky scent.
The sudden blare of brassy jazz jerked Creath from the past. He sliced his gaze to a nearby trio of dark-skinned street musicians while bitterness, lodged deep for years, burned like acid in his gut. Taking a controlled breath, he willed his system to level. Refocused on the business at hand.
His watcher.
Creath had been careful in all his past dealings, damn careful. He’d worked enough homicides to know he had left nothing to chance. So he was certain the watcher wasn’t some rat squad flunky from Internal Affairs. Or from any other law enforcement entity, for that matter. Still, whoever had him under surveillance was experienced enough to stay hidden. So far.
His eyes shielded by dark glasses, Creath scanned the square, his gaze slicking over the throng of sweltering tourists, lines of vendors, the silver-painted street performer dressed like an angel who stood statue-still in front of the St. Louis Cathedral. He saw no sign, no hint of anyone surveilling him.
Forcing his mind to remain locked in the present, he looked back at the blonde, her red-glossed mouth now settled into a pout. He had no wife, no woman in his life who would have reason to hire someone to follow him.
No woman in his life, but one.
Susan. She’d gone to ground a year ago, was too smart to risk returning to New Orleans to check on his whereabouts. Yet human nature dictated that she would constantly be looking over her shoulder, eternally fighting the paranoia that clawed at the edges of her mind. No matter where she was, despite how well concealed, she would want some sort of assurance he hadn’t caught her scent. Wasn’t about to close in on her hiding place. To obtain that, she would have to hire someone to watch him.
The hope she had done just that sent the slow fire of anticipation spreading through Creath’s veins. He was the supreme hunter. When he caught up with the watcher—and he would catch up—he was prepared to do whatever it took to get a lead to Susan’s whereabouts. All he needed was one small tear in his quarry’s cover, one hole he could peer through. Then he would find the bitch who, by leaving him, had turned something good into gut-searing, relentless pain.
Time and fate were on his side. No matter how long it took, he would find her. When he did, he would put the second murder charge against her into play. Then he would slap her in cuffs and lock her in a cell. A dark cell that over the days, weeks, years would fill with her vile, musky female scent.
Susan Kincaid would have the rest of her life to think about what she’d done. About how wrong she’d been to reject him.
Hours later, Josh stood in his upstairs bedroom window, watching the headlights of Regan’s Mustang turn into the driveway next door. When she walked along the moonlight-bathed sidewalk toward Etta’s house, his thoughts centered on the alluring swing of her slim hips encased in snug denim.
In the silver light she looked small. Vulnerable. Watching her, he felt something inside him clench. Whatever that something was, he in no way wanted to examine it too closely. Not while so many unanswered questions loomed about her past. About the woman herself.
He tugged his keys out of the pocket of his faded cutoffs, headed down the staircase, then eased out the back door into the warm, silent night. With the Corvette’s top already down, he slid over the door into the driver’s seat.
All he could do now was wait, and hope Etta’s sexy, dark-haired bartender-caregiver took him up on his offer.
Whoever the hell she was.
Resting his head back against the seat, he watched a pair of fireflies hover over the windshield while he reviewed what he’d learned that day.
According to Nate, the check on the Mustang revealed it was registered to Regan Ford in Sundown, Oklahoma. Josh hadn’t been surprised. Nor had he raised a brow when his own phone call to his IRS contact unearthed the fact the government had no record of a Regan Ford ever having paid federal income tax.
For Josh, it wasn’t a giant mental step to connect the dots. She was hiding from the bastard who’d abused her—using her real name would be like painting a target on her forehead. So, she’d adopted an alias.
Since there were no fraud alerts issued on a stolen identity under the Regan Ford name, he figured she’d stopped by some newspaper’s morgue or a cemetery and obtained the name of a female who’d been born around the same year she had. Then die
d young. A request at a courthouse would have gotten her a copy of the real Regan Ford’s birth certificate. Having that enabled her to obtain a driver’s license. Which was the type of ID required to register the Mustang.
For the most part, it had probably taken her only a few steps to become someone else.
Who the hell was the woman behind the alias?
He could maybe start finding out by running the aka through Internet databases of birth records. Regan, after all, was an unusual first name. Once he found out the state in which she’d created her alias, he could take things from there.
He scowled at the fireflies bombarding the windshield. Women were not a mystery to him. He knew what they were about; he always had. Inside an hour of a first meeting, he could usually find out about a woman’s past, her family, her job—hell, even her bra size. With Regan, he’d gotten nowhere. Maybe the fact he couldn’t figure up from down about her was why he was so intrigued. And why he wanted her to tell him about herself rather than him digging it out of a database.
He didn’t think she was lying, but he knew she wasn’t telling him the whole truth. Meaning the whole truth was probably big and bad. Which only made him want to help her that much more.
“Dammit,” he muttered, shoving a hand through his hair.
He knew it was going to take some finesse on his part to get her to open up to him. Hiding out, being someone she wasn’t, had to put enormous pressure on her. He didn’t want to add more. But somehow, someway, he needed to get her to trust him enough to confide in him. Trust him, so he could figure out how to keep the woman he had begun to feel something for safe.
It was hard to believe they’d met less than a week ago. All he’d wanted when he’d stopped by Truelove’s Tavern the night he arrived in Sundown was one of Howie’s excellent burgers and a cold brew. The instant he’d spotted Regan behind the bar things had begun getting complicated. Always before, he’d made a point to avoid relationships that showed any sign of complications.
Now, avoidance was the last thing he wanted.
A faint scrape of footsteps had him turning his head. He caught the subtle lemony scent of Regan’s soap an instant before she stepped around the hedge.
