Ride a Painted Pony (Superromance)

by McSparren, Carolyn

  “Suit yourself,” she said, sank into the wing chair and propped her feet on the coffee table.

  Except for the mirror, the room was about as masculine as any he’d ever entered. But Taylor wasn’t in the least masculine. His pheromones snapped to attention every time he saw her.

  He heard a yowl and looked down in time to grab a Siamese cat in midair. The cat walked up his chest, settled on his shoulder and began investigating his ear with its nose.

  “That’s Elmo,” Taylor said without an apology.

  Nick reached around and gently scratched behind the cat’s ears. “Hello, Elmo,” he said. The cat yowled directly into his ear and jumped lightly to the kitchen counter.

  “I don’t drink, but I can offer you a diet soda,” Taylor told him.

  He shook his head. “Sorry to come without calling. I didn’t know I planned to until I was almost here.”

  Finally she smiled. Apparently, once Elmo accepted his presence, he was okay.

  “Max slept with Clara Fields,” he said without preliminary.

  Taylor caught her breath and leaned forward.

  He told her everything almost word for word. She hardly blinked during his recital.

  “So that’s it. Max doesn’t want the police to know.”

  “I don’t blame him.” She thought for a moment. “Didn’t you tell me Josh Chessman finished his Ph.D. at Ole Miss?”

  Nick nodded. “He met Margery there. She was president of her sorority or something, and he got conned into chaperoning one of the dances.”

  “Then both Josh and Margery could have known her as well.”

  “Josh didn’t admit it.” He shook his head. “Why would he hide it?”

  “Why not? Particularly if they were more than acquaintances.” Taylor leaned back and began to knead her temples. “This gets more and more complicated. First we don’t have any connection between Rounders and Eberhardt, now we’ve got too many. I think it’s time I called Mel and got him over here.” She looked up. “You had anything to eat?”

  He shook his head.

  That’s when the pier mirror exploded before his eyes.

  A nanosecond later he heard the crack of the rifle.

  Nick flung himself sideways. On his way down he reached across the coffee table, hooked Taylor’s wrist, dragged her off the chair, and rolled her beneath him.

  “Damn!” Nick snarled.

  “You’re hurt!” She raised a hand to his cheek. Her fingers were red with his blood.

  He checked. “Shard must have nicked me.”

  They were both breathing hard, and Taylor’s eyes were wide with terror. This was crazy. Someone just tried to blow his brains all over the walls, and might be waiting to try again, yet whatever mind he had left centered on the warm woman smell of her, the feel of her breasts against his chest, and her long body beneath his. Their eyes locked. Her lips were parted, and her arms were wrapped around his shoulders. He could feel her heart beating against him, and for a moment nothing mattered but a terrible need to kiss her. He bent his head.

  Suddenly he heard running footsteps on the gravel. Taylor flinched. The moment was gone. He let her go and was on his feet in an instant. “Don’t move.”

  “Nick, for God’s sake, stay down!” Taylor begged. She grabbed at his wrist and missed.

  “He’s getting away.”

  “Let him go!”

  He dove out the front door low and fast, and slipped into the trees that lined the driveway. The grass would deaden the sound of his steps. A three-quarters moon illuminated the road but couldn’t reach under the trees.

  Ten yards along, he stopped. No more footsteps. The sniper had either reached the highway or gone to earth waiting to ambush him. Nick felt naked without a weapon.

  The cabin door opened again, and light spilled out as Taylor came toward him. He could see the gun in her hand. He wanted to send her back inside, but knew his voice might attract the sniper.

  At the road, a car backfired and roared to life.

  Nick sprinted to the top of the hill in time to see taillights disappear around the curve in the road.

  A moment later, Taylor raced up with the gun in her left hand and a big black flashlight in her right.

  “Are you crazy?” she gasped. “He might have had a nightscope.”

  “He didn’t.”

  Her chest heaved. “And you knew that? How’d he get in here?”

  Nick took her upper arms. “I told you to stay down. Why’d you follow me?”

  “I’ve got the gun, dammit. And in case you’ve forgotten, you’re the client.” She pulled away from him. “Don’t you dare try to teach me my job.”

  “Your job is to stay alive.”

  “No, that’s my first priority. At least I’ve got better sense than to come out here without a gun.”

  They stood nose to nose. After a moment he grinned. “Yeah. Okay. Point taken.”

  She sniffed. “Fine. May I suggest we try to find footprints or tire tracks?”

  “Not likely. No rain in a week.”

  “He’d leave prints if he ran through the mud at the ford.” Suddenly she leaned over and put her hands on her knees. “I didn’t realize I was this out of condition.”

  “You’re not. It’s from the adrenaline rush.” He reached out to her, but she eluded him and edged along the barbwire fence to the right of the gate. After a moment she said, “This top strand is broken. There’s a piece of fabric caught on the wire.”

  “So he climbed the fence.”

  “Leave it for Mel.”

  “Right. Let’s check that mud.” He walked down the gravel drive, aware of her behind him. She might deny the moment they’d had, but he couldn’t. He acknowledged now that he wanted much more from her than her professional services.

  At the ford, Nick recognized car tracks—probably Taylor’s truck—and the Harley’s narrow tires. Prints from a pair of big running shoes side by side—must be where he’d landed. Smaller ones—probably Taylor’s.

  Then they spotted it A booted foot, pointed toe, dug in hard, almost no heel marks.

  “Somebody big,” Taylor whispered. “Heavy. And running hard.”

  “Yeah.”

  When they were inside once more with the door locked, Taylor walked over to the mirror. She seemed utterly calm.

  The glass lay in shining stilettos across the brick floor and mingled with clear glass from the broken windowpane. She stared down at the mess, then up at the wall. There was a round hole in the rough paneling. She began to chew her thumbnail. “Let Mel dig out the bullet,” she said. After a moment she walked to the table and stuck her gun back into her satchel. Then she sank onto the couch.

  “You okay?” Nick asked. He reached a hand towards her, but she brushed it away, bounced up and began to pace just beyond his reach.

  “Fine. I am perfectly fine.”

  He watched her silently.

  After a moment she glanced at him. “Okay. So nobody’s ever shot at me before.” She tossed her head. “Hey, I’m always up for new experiences, right?”

  He wanted to take her in his arms, pet her, stroke her hair, do all the comforting things a man was supposed to do for a woman. But she obviously had no intention of allowing him near her.

  So what was he supposed to do?

  “Damn! That was my grandmother’s pier mirror. It was the only thing I brought with me when I moved out here.” She whirled on him angrily. “How come I can’t stop shaking?”

  He caught her in mid-pace, pulled her to face him, and wrapped his arms around her. For an instant she resisted fiercely, then she folded against his chest like a kitten.

  Her head fit precisely in the hollow of his shoulder. Her hair felt damp against his neck. He drank in the sweet scent of her, closed his eyes and rested his cheek against her hair.

  Her arms slid around his waist and she leaned against him, clung to him.

  She had to feel that he was erect against her, but she didn’t move away.
r />   She wanted comfort. He wanted to offer much more. He could feel the pulse in his own throat throbbing against her, knew his own heart was racing. Not from fear. This was desire. Fierce, sudden.

  Lousy timing.

  Still, neither of them moved.

  “The shooter didn’t know you’d be here,” she said softly against his chest.

  He caressed her hair, slid his fingers down the nape of her neck. “Unless he followed me from Max’s.” He closed his eyes and moved his cheek against the top of her head. She sighed.

  “If you hadn’t been standing where you were...if you hadn’t been reflected in that mirror...if he’d waited...” she whispered and turned up her face to look at him.

  Her lips were very close, her eyes wide, pupils big and dark, eyes smoky gray in the light from the fire.

  Softly he bent his mouth to hers. Her eyes closed, her lips opened. His tongue teased her and felt her answer him. She was setting his lips on fire. She made a sound deep in her throat. Her hips moved against him...

  Without warning she broke away, her hands raised in front of her. “I can’t do this. You’re the client.” She grabbed the telephone. “I’m calling Borman.”

  “Taylor.”

  She spun away. “No.”

  He sighed. “Shouldn’t we call the police first?”

  She grimaced. “We’re in the country. They’d say it was some drunk poaching deer, or worse, they’d call Vollmer and he’d say you set it up yourself.”

  He knew she was right. He also knew damn well that she’d wanted that kiss as much as he had.

  So he hadn’t bedded a woman in months. So they’d both been through a dangerous experience. That couldn’t explain the solar flare between them when he’d taken her in his arms. Even she couldn’t deny the passion of that kiss any more than he could.

  He watched her back straighten, her shoulders thrust back as she dialed the phone and spoke to Borman.

  “Mel?” she said. Her voice sounded completely businesslike, much different from the throaty whisper she had used in his arms. “I think you better get over here. Somebody just put a bullet through my window. I think they were shooting at Nick.”

  Nick sat on the sofa, and Elmo dropped into his lap to have his belly rubbed. Nick lost the thread of the conversation with Borman as he watched Taylor thrust her hands through her hair, arch her back almost as though she could feel his eyes caressing her.

  A tender woman disguised as a tough cookie. Why did she lock herself behind iron gates in a house designed for fraternity parties? Was her heart locked away as well?

  She obviously hadn’t locked her heart away from Vollmer. Even though she’d told Nick that it was over between them, he felt a stab of jealousy that the man had ever been close to her. He desperately wanted to believe that Taylor was the one who had broken off with Vollmer, not the other way around. How the hell could anyone break away from her and stay sane?

  “Fine. Oh, and Mel? Pick up the biggest pepperoni pizza you can on the way, will you? I’m starved.” She dropped the phone into its cradle. “I always eat when I’m scared. You ought to see me load up before I get on an airplane.” Elmo bounded out of Nick’s lap and into her arms.

  She set him on the kitchen counter and began to draw the café curtains across the windows. Nick started to get up, but she stopped him.

  “Please don’t help. I need to do this. Impose a little control.”

  He nodded.

  She spoke conversationally as though they were discussing the weather, but in the kitchen light he saw that the vein in her throat still throbbed. ‘I’ve always felt completely safe out here,” she said. “I don’t even turn on the outside lights at night. You can’t see the stars properly when they’re on.”

  “Will you at least let me help you sweep up the glass?”

  “No. Leave it until Mel gets here. Elmo’s smart enough to stay away from it. Mel needs to see everything just as it is.” She drew the remaining curtains, threw a log on the fire. Then she opened the refrigerator, took out a diet soda, opened it and drank deeply. She couldn’t keep still.

  She avoided his gaze and spoke as though he wasn’t in the room. “I worried about people in cars breaking through the gates, not lone snipers on foot.”

  “Nobody is safe from a lone sniper, Taylor. Ask the Secret Service.”

  “I know, I know.” She put both fists on the kitchen counter. Elmo oozed around her wrists in figure eights, chattering softly.

  She picked him up and held him against her shoulder. Nick could hear his purr across the room.

  She looked at Nick directly. “I’ve always been afraid of impersonal violence. That’s what killed my husband. I’ve never even considered that someone might hate me enough to do me harm.”

  “Not you. Me. And probably not hate.”

  “What then? And for the love of God, why?”

  “PIZZA MAN!” Mel called as he climbed out of his Lincoln Continental.

  Nick had only met him once—when he hired the Borman Agency. In his office Borman had worn a beautifully tailored navy suit and a red power tie. Tonight he wore a crewneck sweater with the sleeves pushed up over powerful hairy forearms, and jeans that hung below his paunch. He was shorter than Nick by a couple of inches, and although he was probably close to Max’s age, Nick bet that anyone who ran into Mel would bounce off. He moved gracefully on small feet, but the jeans stretched tight across barrel thighs. Under the flesh lay a thick layer of brawn. He looked like a good man to have beside you in a fight.

  Taylor took the pizza box.

  Five minutes later they sat around the coffee table and tore into the pizza.

  Nick was amazed to discover he was ravenous. From the way she ate, so was Taylor. She spoke calmly of the shooting. Nick didn’t think she felt as calm as she sounded, but he wasn’t about to give her away.

  “You’ll move out of here tonight,” Mel said. It was a command.

  Taylor stopped with a slice of pizza halfway to her mouth. “Where is it written everybody makes decisions for Taylor but Taylor?”

  “Somebody’s trying to kill you, girl. If they succeed, you won’t be around when I have to tell your mother.”

  “Nobody’s trying to kill me. They’re trying to kill him.” She pointed a slice of pizza at Nick. “God only knows why.”

  “Because I’m the only person who can recognize the fake animals.”

  Taylor’s head swiveled towards him.

  Nick laid down his pizza and wiped the grease off his fingers. “Think about it. I had enough trouble recognizing the hippocampus myself. If I were dead, you think Max or Josh or anybody else is going to be able to say ‘hey, guys, this is a fake carved twenty years ago by a guy named Nick Kendall’? Not a chance in hell. Whoever’s got those animals would be home free. He’d wait six months and start peddling them again.”

  “But the provenance,” Taylor said. “Didn’t you say the carousel was a Stein and Goldstein? Were all your animals copies of Stein and Goldsteins?”

  Nick sank back in the leather chair. “No. Far as I can remember, there were a couple of Illions, a couple of Philadelphia Toboggan Company, even a Denzel or two. The only animals I didn’t copy were the Parkers.” He shrugged. “I never liked them much.”

  “So the provenance wouldn’t work for the others.”

  “You’d still be able to get fifteen or twenty thousand apiece for them without provenance, especially if you sold them in mint condition and advertised them as ‘professionally restored.’ Nice chunk of change with almost no risk. Better yet, forge the provenance.”

  “Whoever shot at you is likely to try again,” Mel said. “Taylor, I want you out of this. I’ll take over. You weren’t hired to be a bodyguard.”

  “Mel, look at this man. Does he need a bodyguard? A bullet-proof vest, maybe, and somebody to check his truck for bombs before he starts it, but he is a bodyguard, for Pete’s sake.”

  “What if I’m wrong?” Nick asked. “What if the kill
er thinks we both know something? He may come after you, Taylor. I’m not about to let that happen.”

  “Wait a minute, Nick. You client, me detective,” Taylor said.

  “No, you female, me male.”

  Taylor threw up her hands. “You sound like my mother! For pity’s sake, Mel, this is the first job I’ve had that didn’t involve hours staring at a computer screen or fighting off drunks in a bar!”

  “You’re the one who told me if things got dangerous, you’d run,” Nick said.

  “That was when I thought they wouldn’t—get dangerous, that is.” She turned to Mel. “Let’s assume for the moment you’re both right—I’m a target too. Do I take out a classified ad in the personals column? Dear Killer, Taylor Hunt announces that she will no longer take part in the Clara Eberhardt murder case and promises to forget any information you may feel is dangerous to you.”

  Borman harrumphed.

  “There’s another problem. For some crazy reason Danny Vollmer has suddenly decided he wants me back. I can’t assume he’ll step out of the way of his libido long enough to look at suspects beyond Nick.”

  Borman set his pizza down carefully and asked, “How good a cop is Vollmer?”

  “He found the men who shot Paul,” Taylor said. Then she, too, stopped eating. “No, Mel. No. He wouldn’t do something like this. I haven’t seen Danny for almost a year.”

  “You say he wants you back.”

  “Well, yes, he made noises that he did, and I think it’s colored his judgment about Nick, but he’s not a stalker and he’s certainly no killer.”

  “You think he could be the shooter?” Nick asked.

  “I have no idea,” Mel said. “But he’s good with a gun, and he knows this place intimately.”

  “If he knows the place intimately, he’d know about that mirror, wouldn’t he?” Nick asked.

  Borman nodded. “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe you weren’t a target—not a real one, at any rate. Maybe this was Danny’s notice to keep hands off Taylor.”

  Taylor sniffed. “Danny’s probably had half a dozen girlfriends since the last time we saw each other, Mel. He’s not likely to get back into my good graces by destroying my grandmother’s mirror. You think he’s going to risk his career for some dumb stunt?”