“He took you in, and then betrayed your trust.” Lance was guessing, trying to see her side of the situation, though he could also grasp Caret’s attitude toward her.
She wiped her eyes with a knuckle and dried it on the tail of her shirt. “I suppose, and yet, that’s not—not what I was crying about.”
“No?”
“It was a lot of things, really. I was thinking about my mother and how she used to take us out on the back porch of our ramshackle trailer when a storm came up. Sitting close to her, listening to the thunder, was exciting. We had nothing to fear as long as she was there.”
“We?” he asked, inclining his head toward her.
She didn’t look at him, but only stared into the deluge in her turn. “I had a sister.”
“You had one, but—”
“She died over a year ago. My mother passed away much earlier, of course. I used to dream we’d have a house with a porch and a swing one day, the three of us. Then there was Bruce. We talked about a family and a place in the country, but now he’s dead, too.”
“I thought you were planning to leave him.”
“Recently, yes, but before that I thought—Oh, I don’t know. Everyone is gone now, and so are the—the dreams. I’m the only one left.”
The desolation in her voice touched some place deep inside that Lance barely knew existed. Lifting his hand, he cupped her shoulder. “You’re not alone right now.”
Her smile was wan. “No. But where am I going to go, and what am I going to do, when this whole thing is over?”
There was no decision; he didn’t stop to wonder if he was being played. He saw the vulnerability in the depths of her eyes, half hidden behind a brave front, and reacted like any other decent human being.
Contracting the muscles of his arm with slow purpose, he drew her to him. She resisted for an instant then relaxed into him with a shuddering release of pent breath. Her head nestled perfectly next to his chin, her hair tickling his jawbone. She circled his waist with one arm in a convulsive movement, while the other was folded against him.
She was such a soft yet firm armful, with her breasts flattened against his chest and her thighs brushing his. He felt the dampness of her tears on his shirt, sensed the beating of her heart that seemed to increase in strength. He leaned his jaw with its beard stubble against her hair, inhaling the amazingly aphoristic scent of hair dye and warm, damp female. A fine mist of rain was blowing in under the awning, wetting them both, but he barely noticed. Briefly, gently, he swung her as he might a crying child.
She was no child, however, and his body recognized it before his reason caught on. His pulse gathered speed and heat. His brain turned molten in his skull. He felt the drawing surge of need in his lower body, knew he had seconds before she felt it, too. His hold tightened, as if his deepest sinews were reluctant to obey his commands, then he pressed his lips to her temple and let her go.
“Sorry,” he said, stepping back a safe distance, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his jeans to make sure they behaved.
“No need,” she said, her voice so quiet he had to strain to hear above the storm. “I know it didn’t mean a thing.”
She was letting him off the hook, reestablishing the boundaries between them, those of lawman and suspect, of two strangers caught in something beyond their control.
Lance should have been grateful. Somehow he couldn’t find it in him.
The few minutes he’d held her while rain poured down around the awning that covered them had meant something to him, changed the situation in some way. Trouble was, he couldn’t quite decide how.
Chapter 8
The rain continued through the evening. It beat on the skylight that stretched above the table as if trying to break through, faded away to no more than a quiet patter, and then set in again.
The random sound soothed Mandy’s frazzled nerves as nothing else could. She didn’t care if it poured down all night. She divided her attention between the rain overhead and a romantic movie playing on the satellite connection provided by the campground, one she’d seen at least five times.
Lance seemed to hear none of it. He lay on the bed in the back of the RV reading a newspaper as if the fate of the world depended on it. He didn’t look up, gave no sign he knew she was in the world with him. Certainly, he didn’t say a word.
She’d abandoned the shelter of the awning soon after he let her go. Once inside, she touched the place on her temple where his lips had brushed her skin as if that would banish the tingling sensation he’d left behind. It was hard to believe she’d felt that quick kiss; it seemed so unlikely. And yet the clamor in her blood told her she hadn’t imagined it.
It was also incredible that she’d opened up to him the way she had. When was the last time she’d talked about her mother or Clare to anyone? Maybe never. Even Bruce had known only the bare facts. It must have been strained emotions, added to the rain and gathering darkness, that brought it on. Surely, it was nothing to do with Lance Benedict as a man. He was there, that was all.
He’d let her go so quickly. Prolonging the moment might have contaminated his case, she supposed. It might even have contaminated him, given what a scandalous female he’d taken into his arms.
The idea had been compassion, not passion; that much was crystal clear. He’d felt sorry for her, as much as she hated to admit it. Tears did that to some men. Not that she’d intended any such thing.
She’d thought she was alone. When he came toward her out of the rain, she’d expected him to pass her by for the dry protection of the RV. That was if he noticed her at all.
She was glad he’d stopped. For a few amazing seconds, she’d felt comfort and a strange certainty nothing could harm her, and that everything would turn out all right. It was soon over, but she’d had that hope for a few minutes.
Once he’d released her, he become distant again. Funny, how much that bothered her. She would almost say it hurt, but that wasn’t possible. Was it?
He’d apologized afterward. Well, yes, he was probably sorry, all right. Sorry he had stepped over the line he’d drawn for himself.
He was an honorable man; she got that. He knew his duty, and he would do it no matter what it cost. She’d like to think it was difficult for him in her case, but there was scant sign of it.
Or was there?
He avoided touching her if he could, almost pressed himself into the wall when she passed by him in the tight space between the sink and refrigerator. Did that mean he was more affected by her than he was willing to show?
She would dearly like to know. Not that it made any great difference, except the alternative was to believe he despised her.
What would it take to find out, she wondered. Could he be persuaded to hold her in his arms again, and to mean it a second time around?
If he kissed her again, really kissed her, would he carry on from there? Or would he be so astounded by his actions that he’d back away and apologize again?
Dangerous thoughts, these; she could be the one burned by them. Best to forget it. It was doubtful any woman could break through the deputy’s thick reserve. He was steel-plated, immune to the needs and desires of mortal men.
Besides, she’d tested his reaction to her once, back at the safe house. Look where that had landed her.
The movie she was watching segued into a love scene. It was hot and heavy, with much panting and writhing under the bed covers. Mandy barely noticed in her preoccupation. That was, until Lance appeared next to where she had slid down, half-sitting, half-lying on the bench seat next to the table.
“You about ready to turn in?” he asked. “I’m past ready, but will make up the bed here for you if you want.”
Was he bothered by the sex being played on the screen? It seemed unlikely, but who knew?
“Sure,” she said, heaving herself to her feet. “Where do we start?”
Instead of going to sleep once the lights were turned out, however, she lay on her bed cushions and stared
up at the skylight where the rain spattered against the glass. And the challenge she had proposed for herself showed no more sign of going away than did the rain.
Lance was puttering, pure and simple. He knew the odd jobs around the RV were guy type make-work, but he needed something to take him outside this morning.
It was a grand day, after the night of rain. The air smelled fresh-washed, and more than a little like the tall pine trees that surrounded their camp site. The air was pleasantly mild for now, though it would be hot later on. The state park campground they’d run up on was a well-maintained labyrinth of roads and walking trails along the lake shore. It was also well off the beaten path.
Lance had already checked the layout, walked the paths in the immediate area and much of the park’s perimeter. That had been one of the main items on his mental to-do list.
He didn’t dare stay inside the RV with Mandy. She had offered to clean the kitchen after breakfast, and he’d let her. It was better than trying to help in the tight, too intimate space. He didn’t trust himself to keep his hands off of her. And he definitely did not need to go there with her, maybe clasping the slim turn of her waist as he pretended to hold her steady while he passed by, or brushing the curve of her backside as he reached past her for a paper towel, or whatever excuse he could manufacture.
Hell, no. That was a slippery slope he was far too inclined to slide down, head first. Fraternizing with a suspect was a violation of his oath of office. If he came even close, Sheriff Tate would read him a riot act that would make his ears burn for a week.
What was more important, it went against his personal code. He’d sworn to uphold the law, and the oath meant a lot to him. It might not be up there with a sacred vow like marriage, but still.
Marriage? He needed to get his head away from that subject. He fully intended to settle down one day when he found the right woman. A wife, couple of kids, a nice house where family and friends could come for summer cookouts and gatherings at Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas? Yeah, he wanted all that. But he was in no hurry, no hurry at all after his first try at it.
Lance slammed down the hood of the RV a little too hard on that thought. The oil level was fine in this diesel pusher, no need to add more. He’d emptied the holding tanks, checked the gauges of propane tanks, oiled the automatic door step so it no longer squeaked as it went in and out.
What now?
Something had been bumping back and forth in one of the under-body storage bins yesterday. Regular sounds like that drove him nuts. He could check that out, reposition all the stuff Trey carried in order to eliminate it. He should probably clean the portable grill he’d shoved under the RV last night to get it out of the rain and then store it away. Yeah, no telling when they might have to head out fast, and he didn’t want to leave it behind.
Afterward, he could clean the windshield. And look at that, the sides of the RV had gray streaks of road grime. Those had to go.
He was standing on a folding step ladder he found in one of the bins, using a long-handled brush and bucket of soapy water to scrub the RV’s top, when he heard the vehicle door open and close on the opposite side. Tension squeezed the back of his neck. Mandy was outside, maybe looking for him. And he didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry.
Seconds later, she rounded the front of the RV. He saw the top of her head first, the new golden brown curls shining in the sun with highlights of gold and caramel and a hint of rust-red. She’d put it up in a pony tail that bounced and swayed as she walked. For a top, she was wearing a sleeveless white shirt with only a few buttons done up and the tails tied in a knot above the waist. With it, she had on a pair of low riding jean shorts that exposed her flat abdomen and showcased her long, tan legs from upper thigh to her feet in purple flip-flops.
She looked like town-come-to-the-country, ready for anything, including a roll in the hay.
The ladder Lance was standing on wobbled, so he had to slap his splayed fingers against the side of the RV to regain balance. Even then, it was a close thing.
Just what he needed, to land in a heap at her feet.
“Geez, but you’re a busy man this morning,” she said as she came to a stop below him, using to one hand to shade her eyes against the sun. “Need any help with the wash job?”
“I’ve got it, thanks.” He also had a nice view down the neck of her shirt to the pale valley between her breasts. He could actually see where the tan lines left by her bikini ended, only a fraction above the lacy, bridal white bra she wore.
He was a jerk. One who needed his head examined.
“I don’t mind, really. I have nothing else to do.”
“I straightened the awning this morning, and set out a couple of Adirondack lounge chairs I found in the storage bin. You could sit and read.”
Her smile was sunny, but a little crooked. “I could do that, yes, if I was into motorcycle magazines and science fiction. Not my style.”
He wanted to think her style would be fashion mags and not much else, but somehow that didn’t fit, not anymore.
“Maybe—” he began.
“You have another brush? Or maybe rags for cleaning? I have to tell you, I’m dying of boredom here.”
Lance gave it up. “There’s a Squeegee in the bin in the back. You can do the windows.”
She started on those closest to him, where else? Maybe she wanted the company, he thought, or could be it was because he had the bucket of soapy water.
At least she didn’t chatter. He’d noticed that before, but thought it was because she was uncomfortable with someone she didn’t know from Adam. Now it seemed more a personality thing.
She did her job right, stretching high to reach the top of the windows, a move that did interesting things to the front of her shirt. It got even more interesting as water dripped down the long handle of the Squeegee, wetting the cheap cotton fabric. He didn’t have to imagine the lace pattern of her bra; it was there in plain sight.
“The motor home over there is a monster, isn’t it?” she said, nodding toward the rig parked at the site next to theirs. “They must look like a train going down the road with their extra trailer hooked on behind.”
The trailer was for storage, he saw at a glance, and had a special paint job that matched the burgundy and gray of the motor home. “Full-timers probably.”
She squinted up at him while brushing a stray curl out of her face. “Full-timers?”
“They live in their rig, stay on the road year round.”
“It’s their only home?”
“Most likely. A lot of full-timers go south for the winter, north or to the mountains for summer.”
“Nice. Or it might be if a person had no ties.”
He glanced at her, caught by the hint of desolation in her voice. “Could be. Could get old quick, too.”
“You don’t like traveling?” she asked.
“I like it fine. I just think I’d be bored without a job or something else to do.” On the theory that talking was better than letting his eyes wander where they shouldn’t, he went on. “You?”
“I don’t know, since I’ve never done much of it. Bruce had been most places before we married, so wasn’t interested. We did go to the Caribbean a couple of times.”
“To the islands? Which ones?”
“Only one really, Grand Cayman. You know it?”
It certainly rang a bell, an alarm bell, when he thought of Caret’s business dealings. The island was known for its international banks catering to those who wanted to stash money offshore.
“Not really,” he answered as offhand as possible. “I went to St. Thomas and a couple of other places on a cruise. Your trips were cruises?”
“Bruce wasn’t a good sailor. We only stayed at one of those resorts where everything is included.”
“Including scuba diving, maybe?” he asked, thinking of that bikini she’d been wearing.
“Nothing so adventurous, though we went snorkeling a couple of times. Other than that,
I walked on the beach or lay out on it.”
“You, but not Bruce?”
“He didn’t like sand between his toes.” She was quiet for a minute. “We did go to the turtle farm last time we were on Cayman.”
“Turtle farm?” The idea didn’t exactly match his impression of Bruce Caret.
“It’s a big tourist attraction, though the turtles are raised to supply restaurants on the island as well as for conservation. The hawksbill tortoise, one of the bigger turtles, was almost extinct before. They were once used to make jewelry, dresser sets, hair pins and fancy combs, things that are antiques now.”
“Learn something new every day,” he said by way of encouragement.
“Bruce bought a real tortoiseshell hair clasp for me while we were there, a nice one with gold decoration. But after he gave it to me, I discovered it’s illegal to bring tortoiseshell into the States. Bruce wouldn’t let me leave it behind, though. He said it would be fine if I tossed the packaging and pulled my hair back with it like any discount store imitation. I was scared out of my mind while going through customs, but turned out he was right.”
“Nice.”
She gave him a rueful look. “I suppose I shouldn’t be telling you that story.”
“I’m a deputy, not a customs agent. Besides that, I’m out of my jurisdiction.”
She paused at her job, the gaze she turned on him turquoise with surprise. “I suppose you are, at that.”
“That hair clasp would be the one you’ve been wearing?”
“Sure.”
She turned her head and bent her neck, tucking her chin under. And there it was, in multiple shades of gold and brown, so close to her new hair color it was almost invisible. The gold that rimmed it shone in the sun, looking at if it might be eighteen karat, maybe even twenty-four.
Lancelot of the Pines (Louisiana Knights Book 1) Page 9
