Killing Time

by Leslie Kelly

  “See?” he said hopefully after he’d gasped and moaned his last.

  “No,” she bit out between clenched teeth, even as another sneezing fit threatened to force her out of the house. “You. Are. A. Corpse.”

  He was going to be a real corpse, soon, if he didn’t leave her alone.

  “Maybe I can help.”

  Mick. That silky-smooth, reasonable voice could belong to no one else. She really didn’t want his help. Actually, she didn’t want him around at all, but since he’d provided some real assistance with his sister—and the writers—this morning, she couldn’t very well order him out.

  “Do you have any tranquilizer darts, like the ones they use on rampaging elephants?” she asked. “I think that’s what it’s going to take to keep him down.”

  Mick chuckled, then walked over to Mr. Smithback, who was standing up, saying something about how much more action there would be if he wrestled with the killer and tried to take the knife.

  “You’re not killed with a knife, your son is,” Caro muttered, not even really paying attention. “Your wife is strangled and you get shot.”

  Then she turned her attention to Charlie and Joe, who had just completed a sound check and finished setting up lights to capture the cast as they entered the foyer. By the time she turned back around, Smithback was nodding at Mick. He looked quiet, chastened and, amazingly, cooperative.

  “How’s this?” he asked Caro.

  Before she could answer, he flopped over onto his belly, sprawled his arms and legs in different directions, and buried his face in the carpet.

  “Good,” she murmured, silently counting the seconds he remained totally still.

  One. Two. Ten. Thirty.

  “Um…can you breathe?”

  “He can breathe,” Mick said.

  “That’ll do, Mr. Smithback.”

  The man continued his carpet dive.

  “Okay, Eldon. I think she’s got it,” Mick said, raising his voice a few levels. Then he glanced at Caro. “He wears his hearing aid in the right ear, the one closest to the wall. Couldn’t hear you.”

  Mr. Smithback sat up, sucked in a few deep breaths and gave Caro a hopeful look.

  “That was fine, Mr. Smithback,” Caro said. Then she whispered, “My God, would he have suffocated himself if you weren’t here to tell him to stop?”

  Mick merely shrugged.

  “What’d you say to him to get him to drop the idea of dying on camera, anyway?”

  “I reminded him of what happened during his Moose Club trip to Las Vegas three years ago. He might not want his, uh, weekend wife seeing him on TV and recognizing him.”

  Caro grinned, acknowledging not for the first time just how good Mick was with people. He’d basically blackmailed Mr. Smithback into behaving, but the man looked at Mick like he was a hero.

  That was a gift. One that had both attracted her and concerned her back in the old days. It was too easy for Mick to make people like him. People? Okay, women. That was the part that had bothered her in the old days.

  But not anymore. Because, after all, after Thursday night, she hated the bastard, she really did.

  He walked over to help deal with the old lady extra, who was being slightly hysterical about having to lie on the floor in her lovely new dress. Caro didn’t want to think of what the woman was going to say when she found out how much fake blood was soon going to be scattered all over the other two victims. As the one strangled, the female extra should’ve been grateful.

  Mick gave her a quick grin and a wink as he got the woman calmed down within ten seconds. And Caro had to admit, hate him or not, Mick was proving to be a godsend.

  “All right,” she called, watching the makeup people finish putting the fake knife and gore on the chest of the third extra. “Let’s practice some dying!”

  ONCE THAT FIRST DAY was over with, things actually started to go well on the set. Jacey told herself it was just because she could spot a hit when she worked on one. In truth, she was enjoying watching this microcosm of society—the cast—begin to team up and draw lines, to find their place in the show, and to form alliances.

  It was always the same. Whether the show was a Survivor type, or a manhunt, or a lust fest, the people competing reacted in the same, predictable manner.

  Ginger had come out a lot stronger than first impressions had led Jacey to believe, and Mona absolutely as weak. Professor Whittington got on everyone’s nerves, and Willie the truck driver just wanted to get laid. Jacey would lay money that the schoolteacher from Des Moines, Deanna, had already hooked up with James, a store owner from Baltimore. That didn’t seem to sit well with Logan, a computer geek from Chicago.

  As for the others—well, Frank from Fresno was a freaking loser who always wanted his way and wasn’t above whining to get it. Jacey really wished somebody would shove a handful of glue into his mouth one of these days. There were one or two more men, and the other women hadn’t impressed her enough for her to even remember their names.

  That could also be because they, like Ginger and Mona, always seemed to be hovering around everyone’s favorite contestant. Mr. Popular. Mr. Stud. Mr. Hero.

  The guy walking toward her.

  “Hey, Jacey.”

  “Digg,” she replied with a nod, turning her attention back to the breakfast soufflé she was consuming in the nearly deserted dining room of the Little Bohemie Inn very early Sunday morning.

  “Wow, I can actually see your face. No camera in front of it.”

  She deliberately raised a big forkful of her food and stuck it in her mouth. He didn’t get the silent message.

  “I didn’t think you guys ever turned the cameras off.”

  She finished chewing. “Who says they’re off?”

  He gave a quick look around but didn’t ask about the placement of hidden cameras in the room. Everyone knew they were there. Sometimes it was best not to think about it, even for Jacey and the crew.

  Digg crossed his arms and sat back in his chair, staring at her, studying her face so hard she suddenly felt uncomfortable. “You’re not wearing your Bride of Frankenstein look this morning.”

  She shot him a glare.

  “I can actually see a little color in your cheeks. Amazing.”

  “I thought I could eat in peace so I didn’t bother putting on my makeup. Speaking of being in peace, why aren’t you upstairs in your room resting up for today’s round of clue-hunting? The next quiz is coming up. You don’t wanna be one of the ones locked out with the Derryville Demon during the second episode, do you?”

  He shrugged, looking unconcerned. Then he reached for the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. “I feel pretty comfortable. I paid attention yesterday. For instance,” he said, leaning closer and resting his elbows on the table, “I noticed that your black sweater actually had a little pink in it. And I’m almost certain I saw you wearing a pair of yellow shorts when you took off early Friday morning.”

  God, he was observant! She’d slipped out of the inn before dawn Friday and yesterday, as usual, needing to get some exercise and fresh air. She’d gone for a long run at the state park she’d found the first day here and been back at the inn before the first guest had come down.

  “So what does that prove, beyond the fact that you’re not color blind?”

  He smiled a tiny bit. “Just that you’re changing. Relaxing, maybe? Dropping some of the defensive attitude you usually have. I mean it’s pretty obvious your appearance is meant to scare people off.”

  “Thanks Dr. Phil,” she muttered, reaching for her cup again.

  “Where do you go?”

  “What?”

  “Where do you go so early in the morning? Do you get outside for a little exercise?” He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, obviously one of those guys who always needed to be moving.

  I could definitely help you move, Mr. Hero. She told the voice in her head to be quiet, and forced her attention back on his words. Not on his big, hard body.


  “That’s one drawback to small-town inn life,” he continued, “there are no gyms within thirty miles.”

  She sipped her cooling coffee again. “Right.”

  “And since none of the guests are allowed to leave without a member of the crew, not that we could if we wanted to since we don’t have cars…”

  His unmistakable hint hung there in the air between them. Digg wanted to share her workout time. As if he didn’t have enough women here at the inn who’d give up every pair of shoes they owned to get him alone for five minutes.

  A part of her instantly reacted. Her heart sped up a little, and though she hated it, she could feel warmth rising in her face.

  Digg just stared, implacable, watching as he always did. Then, when she didn’t respond with an immediate invitation, he took the initiative. “Can I hitch a ride with you some morning? I could use a break from this place.” He looked at her camera case, which she never left without. “And from the cameras.”

  No, no, say no.

  The words came to her mouth, hung onto the tip of her lips, but got stuck there, somehow. Finally Jacey nodded weakly. “Okay.”

  “Great.” He looked genuinely appreciative, a man who accepted every little kindness or good deed in life and didn’t keep count.

  Jacey couldn’t help adding, “And, uh, you don’t have to worry about the camera. I’d never let it be turned on when I’m wearing anything as hideous as yellow shorts.”

  This time, when he smiled, she couldn’t resist smiling back.

  BY THE END of that weekend, Mick had revised his opinion about Caroline’s job. He’d originally thought it had to be about glamour and power. Now he knew it was about baby-sitting and putting out fires. Sometimes literally, given what he’d heard had happened at the diner. He had to hand it to her, she’d kept her temper and her cool a lot longer than most people would have been able to.

  “So, that’s over with,” he said Sunday evening as they stood in his kitchen, alone for the first time since Thursday night. They were sharing a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, eating right out of the container with two big spoons.

  It had been that kind of weekend. No sleep. No real meals. Tons of stress. Actually, he’d kind of liked it.

  She ruefully shook her head, licking off the spoon, her little pink tongue creating streaks in the ice cream—and a blast of heat in Mick’s body. So much for going back to a cordial relationship. Right now, he wanted to dribble Chunky Monkey all over Caroline’s naked body, watch it melt and then lick off every bit of it.

  “Just beginning,” she said. “But at least we’re on our way. The show will have a dynamite opening with the triple homicide.”

  “Who’s the killer?”

  She shook her head. “Can’t tell.”

  “I’d originally thought it was going to be that guy with the Southern accent who said he’s a farmer. His fingernails were too long to be a farmer.”

  “Well, it’s obviously not him since he’s been bumped out.”

  Bumped out, bumped off. Whatever. The farmer, along with two other people from his four member team, had been eliminated from the game since they were the last to find the three bodies in Sophie’s house. Only Whittington, the college professor, had survived from that foursome because he’d solved the most clues during the day. That hadn’t surprised him too much. He’d thought from the moment he’d met him that there was more to the man than met the eye.

  Caroline continued to lick her ice cream, her visible appreciation for it almost making her look like she was having incredible sex. Or he could just be seeing incredible sex because that’s what he’d been thinking about nonstop for days.

  “So, are we going to talk about it?” she asked, continuing to lick her ice cream, but now staring at him over the spoon. Her eyes were knowing, as if she could read what he’d been thinking. And had been thinking it, too.

  “Talk about it?”

  She nodded. “I spent all day Friday hating you. But I have to admit it, Mick, if you hadn’t been there on the set yesterday and today, things would have been a lot more difficult.”

  That was an understatement. For some reason, it pleased him to know that Caroline had admitted she needed him. If only to help the writers get the layout of the town. Or to blackmail extras into behaving. Or, as he had this morning, to get on the horn and have the local shipping company open up on a Sunday so Caroline could get some much-needed packages delivered.

  Yeah. She’d needed him. For more than just what she’d needed from him Thursday night.

  “So, I figure we’d better clear the air about what happened the other night. Because I have a proposition for you.”

  His mind instantly went into the gutter. “A proposition?”

  She tsked but didn’t look offended. “Not that kind of proposition. I want you to work with us while we’re here in Derryville. Be a sort of…liaison to the town. But that’ll only work if you and I can come to some sort of peaceful arrangement.”

  “We’ve been peaceful.”

  “Okay, how about cordial arrangement? Not going from lust to hate and back again every other hour.”

  He couldn’t keep the intensity from his voice as he replied, “I’ve never hated you.”

  She slowly lowered her spoon, leaving it sticking out of the ice cream container on the counter. “Not even when you had your back tattooed…for the second time?”

  Knowing Caroline as he did, he figured she’d resent it if he acknowledged that hint of hurt in her voice. He didn’t know which surprised him more—that he heard that note of vulnerability, or that he’d ever had the power to hurt her to begin with. But apparently, he had. He’d hurt her long after she’d left, when he’d tried to remove her importance from his life by removing her significance on his body.

  “I didn’t hate you,” he finally said. “Some people cauterize their wounds. I tried to get rid of mine with needles and ink.”

  Her eyes widened. Without saying so, it was clear she understood what he meant. That she’d wounded him. Something she’d probably never believed she could do.

  Treading even deeper into dangerous territory, she asked, “What did you do after I left, Mick? I know you didn’t graduate. What happened?”

  The ice cream was feeling heavy in his stomach. Or maybe that was his past causing the discomfort. In any case, he didn’t particularly want to discuss it. Instead he said, “About the other night…you really think we can work together, live together and, uh, forget about what happened?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”

  He gave her a triumphant smile.

  “So obviously we need to agree to stop these silly revenge games, and keep our interactions and relationship cordial and professional. Not personal.”

  He stepped closer, unable to help it. Damned if he’d be reduced to being Caroline’s associate. He’d rather be her enemy.

  Bullshit. He wanted to be the man who shared her bed.

  He shrugged off the thought. He could have been. Could have done that easily Thursday night, with a flick of a few buttons and some maneuvering on the couch. But he hadn’t. And it was too late to do anything about that now.

  “You really think we can be business associates? Keep it professional and nothing else?” he asked, his voice low and intense with knowledge that what she suggested was impossible.

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, I do.”

  “You’re delusional, Caroline.”

  “Why? People do it every day. Just because we share a past doesn’t mean we have to let it determine our future.”

  She sounded so reasonable, like she was laying out a perfect argument to her boss at the studio, or someone on the set of her show. Which really torqued him off.

  He stepped close, crowding her, putting both hands on the counter behind her until she was caught between his arms. “We can never be just associates. And even though we were once friends, we can’t go back to that either.” He stepped closer, wanting her to admit t
he truth. “We’re lovers, Caroline. We always have been. We can’t be anything else. Whether we’re making love these days or not, that’s the only word to describe our relationship.”

  Color rose in her cheeks and she parted her lips, which still had the tiniest bit of ice cream in the corner. He wanted to taste it. Wanted to sample its flavor combined with the taste of Caroline’s mouth. So he dipped down, kissed it off, licked it away.

  She remained frozen, not moving a muscle. But he’d swear he heard a soft, helpless whimper in her throat as he ended the brief kiss and looked down at her. “We’re lovers, Caroline.”

  She shook her head.

  He lowered his mouth to hers again in another soft, intimate kiss. This time he stepped closer, until their bodies met. He brushed against her in a deliberate, seductive invitation. She answered it with a deep, throaty moan.

  Then he lifted his head, held her chin in his hand to force her to look at him and whispered, “Lovers.”

  Something flashed in her eyes. “Then why didn’t you make love to me Thursday night?” She instantly bit her lip, as if cursing herself for saying that out loud.

  He’d been asking himself the same thing for days. How could he explain that he’d been trying to protect them both? Would she appreciate him trying to prevent them from falling back into the same pattern: her not trusting him and not being satisfied with the world he wanted? And him watching her walk out of his life again?

  Somehow, though, resisting her now seemed harder than it had Thursday night when he’d been going crazy with lust for her. Because tonight had suddenly flamed with more than lust. It now involved something he’d almost forgotten about. Emotion. He’d admitted she’d wounded him. And she’d visibly displayed her hurt. They had begun to open the floodgates on emotion and he wondered if they’d ever be able to be closed again.