Louie put her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes. The air was warm and filled with the fragrant scent of the burning tamarack. Beside her, his body added to the heat. Did she want to talk about Christopher to a man she barely knew? Did she want to talk about Christopher at all, especially after the news on the bullet?
An hour ago she'd have said no way, no how. That was an hour ago. In this time and this place, she wanted to tell Paul about her brother. There were times when not talking about Christopher made her feel as though she'd explode. Next to Paul, relaxed and comfortable, Louie began to talk and the words flowed as though this moment was meant to be.
After she finished, a thick silence fell between them. He reached over and took her hand, bringing it to his lips. He pressed a kiss into her palm. Her whole body quivered at the touch, his lips hot against her skin. She didn't pull away.
"I'm sorry." He kissed her palm again.
Tears welled in her eyes and she willed herself not to cry. It wasn't like her to allow emotion to rule; it had to be the booze. Except, if that's all it was, why didn't she pull her hand away? The answer, even through the fog of bourbon was simple. Because she didn't want to. The feel of his lips was heaven.
"I wish…" He continued when she said nothing. "That I could feel the kind of love for my brother that you do for yours." The sadness in his voice touched her heart.
She opened her eyes and studied his face. He was serious. He didn't believe he loved his brother any longer. She reached over and touched his chest with the palm of her hand. "You do, in here."
His green eyes were sad as they looked into hers, and he shook his head slowly. "No, I don't. It's just not there anymore."
Her hand stayed on his chest. She didn't believe it. His were not the eyes of a man who was cold and uncaring. She'd looked into eyes like that before. There were those who existed in the world whose hearts were, indeed, black. This man wasn't one of them.
"It is," she said. "It is."
He covered her hand with his and they stayed that way for a long moment. Then, he bent his head and kissed her, the touch of his lips as light as a feather. The sensation of his warm lips pressed against hers was unexpected, and at the same time, thrilling. She leaned into him and pressed her lips harder against his, her tongue slipping into his mouth. He tasted as good as he felt, and her pulse roared.
He pulled her close, a faint groan escaping his throat. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and her arms came around his neck. Her fingers touched the long red hair, so full and soft in her hands. It was everything she imagined. She wanted more.
She was a little shocked when he leaned away from her and brushed a stray hair from her eyes. "I think we've both had too much to drink."
He was right. Even so, she longed to kiss him again and to let herself forget the rest of the world for a little while. She'd earned it and it had been such a very long time.
But, if she did, she'd be sorry in the morning. Corny as it sounded, she wasn't that kind of girl. Hook-ups just weren't her thing.
"Maybe," she whispered.
"I should go."
She leaned her forehead against his and said, "I don't think so. You, Mr. Hockey Stud, have had too much to drink and will not be driving yourself home. I'd feel horrible if you ended up with a DUI after I fed you all the bourbon."
A smile lifted his mouth and once again she was struck by how really attractive he was. Her blood roared when he looked at her like that. Maybe she should rethink her stance on one night hook-ups.
"I'll call a cab," he told her.
"No way. I have a very comfortable sofa right here. Besides, that way you can keep an eye on me. Wasn't that what following me around was all about?"
"That it was. Well, if you don't mind…" His beaming smile made her heart skip a beat.
Chapter Seven
It wasn't the brightest move he'd ever made and Paul felt it in every inch of his body. What in the world had they been they thinking last night when they'd cracked the bottle of Jack? Jesus, how many drinks had they downed? Might not be a great idea to look at the bottle to see what was left. Argh, his head felt like someone had tap danced on his skull all night. His mouth didn't fare much better. Someone had obviously snuck in and stuffed it full of cotton while he was asleep. If he was actually asleep—hard to tell the difference between passed out and sleeping.
God, he hated feeling like this. Precisely the reason he rarely drank. He wasn't the playboy type. Hanging out in bars, picking up women, and drinking like a fish weren't his style now or during the height of his glory. It looked good in the tabloids or in the entertainment blurbs of the popular online news reports. It wasn't so hot for an athlete who was serious about the game.
These days he was lucky if he drank a single beer in a week. His life was a haze of meetings, hockey practices, spunky young players, and, of course, financial reviews with his accountants, the bean counters and their spreadsheets. It took a lot of money to keep a farm team alive and there were many days when Paul wondered what kind of insanity had gotten into him the day he bought the team. At least until he was back out on the ice with the kids, who were so full of enthusiasm and joy for nothing more than the game itself. That's when he remembered why he'd bought the team and why he stayed even when it seemed like more than one man could handle.
Last night was a rarity for him. He couldn't remember the last time he sat alone with a woman and enjoyed good bourbon and conversation. Everyone always wanted something from him. When he'd played, the coaches wanted goals and the women wanted a star along with the spotlight that came with it. Now, the parents of his young players wanted him to make their sons stars. There was no such thing as a conversation without an underlying agenda.
Until last night. Sitting by the fire with Louie had been pleasant in spite of the tragedy that had brought them together. And there was no doubt, at least in his mind, his brother's rash actions fell into the category of tragedy.
The longer he sat beside her, the more he was intrigued by her rare beauty. She wasn't the model or the beauty queen type, she was something much better. Her skin was clear and fresh, her short hair dark and full of shine. He was fascinated by her eyes when she talked, mesmerized by the life that seemed to jump and roar in them. He'd wanted to kiss her from the beginning and when their lips finally did meet, man oh man it had sent a fire right into the old pants.
That she was a willing, almost eager, participant warmed him through. She was responding to him, not the NHL star, not the coach, but to the man. And it felt fantastic, at least until rational thought shoved its way into his brain and he'd opted to take the high road. It sucked, no doubt about it, but until he had Jamie by the scruff of the neck, he needed to focus on more important things than his libido. Jamie first, and then he'd have all the time in the world to see where things could take them.
Everything in its time and the time would be later when this unpleasant task was done. That seemed like a really good and lucid train of thought until he raised his head to see her standing in the doorway. In shorts and a plain cotton shirt, her long legs bare and golden, he just about swallowed his tongue. The high road was hard to take when a vision like that was a guy's wake-up call. One thing was certain, he wasn't about to stand up anytime soon. His eyes darted to the blanket and he raised one leg slightly. No need to broadcast what was going through his mind.
"Hey," she said with a small smile.
"Hey."
"I know you're not a coffee guy, so would you like some tea?"
"Yeah," he squeaked. Was that his voice? Great. So smooth. A little booze, a little kissy-face, and he turned into a guy with the nerves of a thirteen-year-old. Get it together, McDonald.
"Be with you in a sec." She turned away and disappeared back through the doorway into the kitchen.
Paul dropped his head down to the pillow and groaned. They'd better find Jamie and soon. If she kept looking like that, the high road be damned. He'd jump her bones like an over-eager
frat boy.
* * * *
For a man who'd kissed her like a lover last night, he certainly was different in the light of day. Granted, he did look a little worse for wear, and she supposed the bourbon played a big hand in that. Wait, there was no supposing about it. Way too much liquor combined with cozy firelight had set the mood, and both of them had responded. She'd like to say she was sorry except she wasn't. It had been great. There were times when getting carried away with the moment was the right thing to do and last night was one such moment. She smiled all over again just thinking about the touch of his lips to hers. She'd like more of that, but maybe not right now.
Waiting for the tea to steep, Louie risked a peek around the corner. Paul's head was on the pillow, an arm thrown over his eyes. Damn, he looked good. Thinking about how he'd reacted to her a few minutes ago gave her pause. For a second there it seemed like he would jump right out of his skin. Twitchy, definitely twitchy. Never realized she had that kind of power over a man. Some tough hockey player he seemed to be. If he was going to shadow her on this hunt, he really was going to have to toughen up.
Then again, the end to last night was unexpected. She bet he felt the same way. They didn't really know each other, she was tracking his criminal brother, and they'd discovered a dead body. None of those things were particularly conducive to the start of a romantic relationship. And yet that's the way it felt the moment his lips touched hers: pure romance, not at all like a couple of strangers reaching out in an alcohol-enhanced moment. No, it truly had felt natural and real. That he pulled back and hadn't seized the advantage impressed her more than a little.
It took a lot to impress Louie; she'd seen and heard it all. If not during her days on the police force, certainly since becoming a bail enforcement agent. Every excuse known to man had been offered during the last five years, and she'd grown hardened in response. Or maybe she was just cynical. In any event, impressing her was not something done easily or often.
Before she'd announced her presence and asked Paul if he wanted tea, she'd studied him for a few minutes. She didn't mean to spy. More than anything else, she was curious, or at least that's what she told herself. She was as intrigued with Paul McDonald as with any man. He kept surprising her, and she liked that about him.
With all the bourbon she poured down last night, she thought she'd drop like a rock once she hit the bed. Didn't happen. Instead, she kept seeing his green eyes and recalling the fabulous pressure of his lips against hers. She'd wanted more and was disappointed when he pulled away. Well, disappointed and awed. Most men she knew would have pressed the advantage and dealt with the fallout later. Not Paul McDonald, who took the gentleman's path.
This morning with his red hair tousled, and his long, muscular body stretched out on her sofa, she'd had the crazy urge to run in and jump on him. Considering the fact he was the brother of a man under federal indictment, that didn't make a whole lot of sense. Plenty of men expressed interest in Louie, and a couple who were even doggedly persistent. She'd dated one or two of them, and it had been fine. The difference between those men and the one on her sofa was simple: sparks. Not once did she experience the urge to jump on any of the others. Only one so far filled her with such want and a complete and utter disregard for consequences.
Once more the single word floated through her mind: crazy.
The tea she fixed now was little more than an excuse to get out of the same room. She'd really been afraid she'd do something to embarrass herself. A little time and a little space were in order. Give her that and she'd be rock steady Louie again.
By the time the tea had steeped, Paul was up and looking more like the man she met on the ice that first day. His green eyes were clear and though he was a bit on the pale side, he appeared to be making a full recovery.
They sat at the bar in the kitchen and drank the tea while chatting about his brother and what they'd do next. Neither one of them brought up the kiss or what it implied. It sort of hung between them, acknowledged though unspoken. As if either one of them mentioned it, the magic would be gone. So they drank tea, exchanged smiles and small talk as though nothing passed between them.
The tea polished off, Paul left and after Louie changed into jeans and a blouse, she headed over to her office. When she parked the Chevelle outside the brick building, she noticed that Paul's car wasn't in the lot.
She breathed easier. Thank God for small favors.
"Good morning, sunshine."
Louie turned and grinned but her smile faded as she got a good look at Meg. Her coffee-colored skin was gray and her eyes were hooded. Her whole body seemed smaller, almost folded in on itself. Louie ran to Meg's side and took one arm to help her up the stairs. Always thin, today Meg felt like little more than a shadow.
"Are you all right?" There had to be some reason her friend seemed to fade away before her eyes.
Meg patted Louie's arm. "Had better days, little one, but this too shall pass," she said.
Had better days? That was an understatement. Louie knew some really good doctors and she was certain they could do something to help Meg. "Maybe we should take a run to the doctor's office?"
Meg shook her head. "No, no, no. All I need is a little rest and I'll be good as gold."
Louie wasn't buying it. She'd never seen Meg look this haggard before. On most days, she was a veritable ray of sunshine, a bundle of energy and good humor that Louie envied. Not today, and a feeling deep in the pit of her stomach told her this wasn't good. She couldn't just stand by and do nothing. There had to be something she could do. She helped Meg up the stairs and into the small apartment.
Louie got Meg settled into her favorite chair and made her a cup of steaming tea, the special Earl Grey ordered from England. She set it on the small table beside Meg and knelt in front of her.
"Are you sure you don't want me to call the doctor? I'll go with you."
Meg's smile held some of her usual brightness. She touched a frail hand to Louie's hair. "No, Louise, I don't want to visit the doctor."
"I think…"
Meg pressed a finger to Louie's lips, stopping her. "I'm an old woman and time, my dear sweet friend, takes its toll whether we want it to or not. The doctor cannot turn back the clock and make me young and vital again."
"He could help you feel better."
"Perhaps and perhaps not. This is what it is and I accept that. You'll have to do the same."
"I don't know."
Her smile was sad. "I've had my day, Louise, and it was good. Now, I watch time pass and wonder when I will join my dear sweet Henry. I don't believe it will be today, so please stop worrying. I'm going to be as fine as an old lady can be."
"I can't help but worry about you."
"And that's one of the reason I love you. I can't imagine how dull these last few years would have been without you around. You remind me of myself, little one. You are the kind of pistol I was in my day. You'll do something good for this world and I'll go to my maker glad you were my friend."
Louie smiled. She appreciated Meg's confidence in her even if it might be misplaced. She did know that having Meg as her friend made her a better person. "And right back at you."
Meg squeezed her hand. "Now get to work," she said. "You're wasting daylight, as my darling Henry would say."
"Yes ma'am." Louie saluted.
By the time Louie left the apartment, Meg was at rest in her chair, her eyes closed. Louie felt a little better, though not much. Despite Meg's protestations to the contrary, she looked ill and Louie didn't like it. She made a mental note to check on Meg more often and to ask Harry to keep an eye out as well. Friends like Meg were few and far between, and she didn't want anything to happen to Meg.
* * * *
Jamie knew it was stupid to even do this, but what choice did he have at this point? He had nowhere to run and no one to run to. They'd killed the one person who still believed in him. Now, she was cold and dead, and it was his fault. He was more alone than ever and he deserved
to be.
Except for his brother. Paul would be furious, and even Jamie couldn't blame him at this point. Man, oh man, he'd screwed things up big time, even for a lifelong screw-up like him. Right now, he was desperate enough to risk Paul's fury.
The time Jamie'd spent underneath the city bridge was the last straw. While that nasty spot under the bridge had been an excellent place to hide, he couldn't and wouldn't spend one more second beneath the rattling concrete and asphalt. The thought of what he might find if he returned was something he couldn't deal with. No, what he needed were clothes, food, and a car, and he needed them pronto.
He would beg, he would cry…hell, he'd do whatever he needed to in order to get Paul to listen. If Jamie just stuck to the truth, even as crappy as it was, Paul would have to help him. There was a time, even if it was a long time ago, when they were close. Paul would remember. He'd have to. If he didn't, Jamie was afraid he'd be dead before the week was out. He could feel them breathing down the back of his neck already, and it had him jumping at his own shadow.
Paul might hate Jamie for a dozen different reasons, but he refused to believe Paul would turn his back and let his only brother die. He'd always been a stand-up kind of guy, the one who did the right thing every time. More important, they were blood and that had to count for something. Didn't it? Jesus, Jamie hoped so.
Early morning traffic was light as he walked on the shoulder of the narrow road toward Paul's house. Gravel crunched beneath his feet. He kept to the shadows along the ridge of the prairie they call Five Mile. Once, long ago, instead of the high-end urban developments now dotting the landscape, Five Mile had been covered with massive wheat fields and family farms. In the middle of the hundreds of acres of prairie sat an old red brick schoolhouse and the requisite clapboard-sided country grange painted bright white.
Just down the road from the schoolhouse, Paul's place was one of the few original farmhouses still on the prairie, distinctive amidst the rush of modern architecture of the surrounding homes. From the outside, it looked much like it did in days gone by. Inside was different story, with every modern convenience installed with great care and thought. The house still had an original feel to it without sacrificing its past. Jamie hadn't been invited here often, but when he did, he was in awe of the home Paul had made.
Dirty Deeds Page 9
