A Man for All Seasons (20 page)

He led her inside and they waited until a waitress came to seat them. Josette asked for separate checks. Then she ordered the fish platter and coffee. Brannon ordered the same, substituting iced tea for coffee.

“Okay,” he said. “What did you find out?”

She told him, elaborating about Sandra Gates's flight from prosecution and adding her own suspicions about
the part the mysterious woman of Jake Marsh's had played in Mrs. Jennings's death.

“That's a lot of generalizations,” he remarked.

“I know,” she sighed. “If we knew who the woman was…”

“Didn't Grier's contact know anything about her?” Brannon asked far too casually.

She took the question at face value. “Only that she was rich.”

“Did he ask you to go with him?” he persisted over a forkful of fish. “Grier knows some dangerous people. It isn't safe to tag along with him.”

“Why not? Grier isn't scared of them.”

“That's because he's more dangerous than they are.” His eyes narrowed. “You don't know anything about him, do you?”

“He's the resident computer expert,” Josette said, nibbling on her food.

He laughed. He finished his fish and fries, and pushed the plate aside, wiping his mouth with the napkin and sipping iced tea before he answered her.

“And you're not going to tell me why that's funny, are you?”

Brannon leaned back and stared at her with faint
amusement. “Does he fit your idea of a computer expert?”

She thought of Phil Douglas in her office and compared him with Grier. “Well, no,” Josette confessed.

His silver eyes narrowed. “Just don't get too attached to him,” he said bluntly.

Her eyebrows arched. “And why not?”

Brannon leaned forward abruptly, so that his face was inches from hers. “Because you're mine,” he said flatly.

While Josette was trying to think of a snappy, mature reply, he got up, grabbed the check, and stood aside to let her out while she was still fumbling in her purse for the tip.

She barely managed to get it on the table under her saucer before she was led to the checkout counter. And before she could argue about it, he'd paid that bill, too.

“You have to stop feeding me,” she muttered as he led her outside to the truck and drew her around to the passenger side.

“I can't. You're too thin.” He paused at the door. The parking lot was deserted. He moved deliberately so that he was standing close to her, both arms on the cab of the SUV behind her.

“Brannon,” she protested, but she sounded breathless as her hands went to his shirt.

He searched her eyes for so long that her heart began to flutter in her chest. She knew he could see her ragged breathing and the hot flush she felt on her cheeks. But she had no way of resisting him.

He looked down at her soft mouth hungrily. “All right,” he said huskily. “We'll do it your way. Flowers. Candy. Tickets to the symphony concerts.”

“Wh-what?” she stammered.

He bent and brushed his hard, warm mouth against her soft one. “I love kissing you, Josie,” he whispered. “I always did.”

It was hard to resist a man with his skill, moreover, one who could be so tender and teasing. Her hands spread on his chest, feeling the hard muscle underneath. Her eyes closed.

“We're going to get arrested for lewd behavior,” Josette moaned.

“Kissing isn't against the law,” he ground out against her parting lips.

Brannon levered down against her, his mouth demanding, his body hard and insistent where it flattened against her hips. He groaned softly, and his heavy brows drew together in sweet anguish.

Josette's eyes opened just briefly and she saw his expression, and knew that he wasn't pretending to be af
fected by her. He really did love kissing her. And that wasn't all. She felt a blatant, insistent pressure against her belly.

“Marc,” she whispered, drawing back a breath. “There's a car pulling in.”

His eyes looked blank. Glazed. He blinked and drew in a forced breath. Then his head lifted and he glanced at the incoming car's single occupant. Slowly the drawn tension of ardor left his lean face and he smiled quizzically.

Josette was still reeling. From behind her, on the other side of the SUV, came an amused deep drawl. “
She
said you wouldn't mind if she went along with me. Ha!”

It was Grier's voice, and he was already walking toward the restaurant before either of them could say a word.

“Oh, Brannon,” she moaned, pulling back from him with wide eyes, a swollen mouth and a bubble of laughter on her lips.

“Did you tell him that?” he asked softly.

Josette sighed. “Yes, I actually did. But you do mind,” she added with sudden realization.

Brannon fingered her soft hair. “I've been in law enforcement almost half my life, yet Grier has done things
I never dreamed of.” He shrugged. “He hates women, but they follow him like a chicken follows a rattlesnake, with pure fascination.”

Why…he was jealous! Why hadn't she seen that before?

He glared at her. “I'm not jealous,” he said, reading her expression. “I just don't think it's safe for you to go places with Grier.”

She studied him, from his wavy blond-streaked light brown hair to his silver eyes, to his handsome lean, tanned face, to his chiseled mouth and she laughed breathlessly.

“I always thought you knew how good-looking you were,” Josette said shyly. “But you don't think of yourself that way, do you?”

He shifted as if uncomfortable. “Looks don't mean much.”

She smiled. “You'd be sexy and attractive if you had a big nose and ears like jug handles,” she said.

One eyebrow arched. “Would I?”

That faint hint of masculine insecurity made her melt. Did he really need to be reassured that she found him attractive? Impulsively she reached up with her arms and drew his mouth down to hers. She kissed him softly, feeling the delight of it all over her yielded body.
Brannon seemed surprised at the move, but he kissed her back tenderly.

“Your only real problem is that temper,” Josette whispered. “You make Grier look like a pacifist.”

He chuckled, not at all insulted. “I'll calm down in a few years.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“They say kids take the rough edges off a man.”

“Kids?” She searched his eyes, perplexed, but found nothing there. “Do you have many rough edges?”

He pursed his lips and looked deliberately at her stomach. “We'll have to talk about that one of these days. And about kids. Meanwhile, how about a symphony concert? There's one Saturday night.”

Josette hesitated. “We're here on a murder investigation.”

“Good. We can investigate the conductor and the first chair violinist,” he replied easily. “They'll make dandy suspects. I'll even file a report, after.”

“Brannon!” she said, exasperated.

“Detectives get an occasional night off. Saturday is going to be ours.” He kissed her one last time before he opened the passenger door. As he helped her climb up, he noticed several teenagers in a van parked near the restaurant. They were watching the couple at the
black SUV with wide eyes and big smiles. The smiles got bigger when Brannon walked around to the driver's side and they saw the cream-colored Stetson, boots and revolver, and the Texas Ranger badge on his shirt.

Brannon almost blushed as he started the vehicle.

Josette, who had been watching the byplay, laughed softly to herself. But she blushed, too.

He glanced at her as she fastened her seat belt. “You still blush. Imagine that, at your age.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, you were blushing, too, Brannon!”

“I never blush,” he said curtly.

As they passed the teenagers, one of the girls let out a long, enthusiastic wolf whistle at Brannon.

He could hear Josette's soft laughter, but he wasn't going to look at himself in the mirror. He was
not
blushing.

 

“What about the safe-deposit box?” Josette asked when they were back in front of the D.A.'s office.

“Dead end. I checked every bank in town that didn't require a court order, and I'll go back and check the ones that did. But so far, nobody has a record of Dale Jennings renting one.”

She thought about that, hesitating about getting out
of the vehicle. “Suppose,” she began, “just suppose it was in the woman's name.”

“It might be,” Brannon said. “But we're no closer to finding her name. Apparently it wasn't Sandra Gates.”

“I'll bet Grier can find out who she was,” she said without thinking. “He seems to know his way around the underworld.”

“Then let him do his own legwork. I mean it, Josie,” he said shortly, and his eyes were threatening. “I'm not having you at risk for any case, no matter how important.”

“What do you know about the man that you're not telling me?” she demanded.

“Things I can't repeat,” he said harshly.

“Things?”

Brannon hesitated and bit off a hard sigh. “Classified things, Josie,” he said finally.

Her eyebrows shot up. That could mean anything.

“Just…take my word for it and humor me, could you?” he asked, exasperated, scowling at her. “Listen, having you get shot was hard enough on my nerves. I don't want to risk you twice.”

The lines in her face smoothed out magically. “You don't?” she asked absently, because her eyes were locked
into his. She tingled all over with the delight of his concern.

Brannon touched a wisp of blond hair that had escaped her braided hairdo. He looked exasperated. “Josie, how would you feel if I'd been shot?”

Her involuntary exclamation was telling. It was as if all the masks had been torn off and she was facing him with her whole heart in her eyes.

His lean hand framed her cheek and his thumb rubbed softly over her mouth. “At least you still feel something for me,” he said huskily.

She started to protest, but that thumb was back across her lips again.

“Don't disillusion me,” he whispered, leaning toward her. His lips parted just as they touched her. Brannon had to force himself not to drag out the warm, tender kiss. He lifted his head. As he did, he looked straight into Grier's dark eyes through the open passenger window.

“She said you wouldn't mind if I took her along,” Grier repeated, deadpan.

“I mind,” Brannon said flatly, his silver eyes threatening, possessive.

Grier pursed his wide, thin lips and just for an in
stant, there was a glimmer in his dark eyes. “Lighten up, Brannon. I'm just a computer expert now.”

“And Putin used to be just a cop!”

Grier burst out laughing before he turned and walked back into the building, both hands stuck in his jeans pockets.

Her mind was whirling. “Putin?”

He gave her a speaking look.

Russia. The premier. A former colonel in the KGB. “Oh. Putin! Vladimir Putin!” she exclaimed. “Right.”

“Never mind. Get out and go to work, but not with Grier. I mean it.”

“I'm not a waitress.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I don't take orders,” she said with a grin, and got out of the SUV.

He leaned toward the open door, where she was silhouetted. “I want kids.”

She gaped at him. “So?”

“So take care of yourself and do what I asked.” Brannon reached over and pulled the door shut before Josette could ask him to explain that outrageous statement.

W
hen Josette finished going through local files, looking up information about Jake Marsh and talking to police officers and detectives who had interrogated him, she was surprised to find Brannon waiting outside the D.A.'s office.

He leaned across and opened the passenger door. “Climb in,” he invited. “I'll drive you to your hotel.”

It was like old times, when he picked her up after her last college class, or at the library on Saturdays when she was researching project papers. It warmed her heart to see that he was still just as thoughtful.

She climbed in beside him with a delighted, unguarded smile. “Thanks! But, why are you here?”

He gave her a long stare. He sighed and shrugged. “I thought Grier might offer to drive you back,” he confessed reluctantly.

She chuckled softly at that involuntary evidence of jealousy. “He went out when I got back from lunch and hasn't returned,” she said smugly. “I haven't even spoken to him.”

He smiled. “Good.” He started the vehicle and carefully pulled out into the stream of traffic.

“I've been looking up information about Jake Marsh,” she said as he drove. “One of the patrolmen remembers questioning him about Dale Jennings, about the time of the Garner murder trial. Marsh said that Jennings was a sort of courier for him, delivered messages and that sort of thing, but they cut him loose when he started hanging around Bib Webb's house.”

Brannon frowned. “He didn't hang around Bib's. He worked for Henry Garner.”

“I'm just telling you what he said,” she replied. “It's in the report the officer made after the interview.”

“If Bib's going to be back in town this weekend, I'll go see him and ask him about it.”

“Good idea.”

“Did Jennings ever ask you out before you went to the Webbs' party with him?”

Josette glanced at him warily, because this was sensitive territory. “No. I used to see him at the corner coffee shop all the time. Bib Webb's wife was taking some sort of class on campus that year. I even saw her there. It wasn't exactly a hoodlum hangout, if you get my meaning.”

He was suddenly alert. “Silvia had coffee there?”

“Not often,” she recalled. “I saw her there once or twice. She was sitting all by herself.”

That was disturbing. He didn't remember Bib ever mentioning that Silvia was taking a college class. Since she didn't have a high school education, it seemed a bit far-fetched. “Did she talk to anyone?”

“I didn't really notice,” she recalled honestly. “I was usually in a hurry, on my way to class or the library or a lab, or even home. I got my coffee to go, mostly. Once in a while I'd drink it there. I liked those homemade scones they sold. Dale Jennings liked them, too, and we started talking. Just casually. I was surprised when he asked me to the Webbs' party. We didn't really know each other that well.”

Brannon didn't enjoy remembering why she'd gone
with the man to the Webbs' party. “Did he hit on you?” he persisted.

“Not at all,” she said, smiling faintly. “It wasn't ever that sort of relationship. He liked me, but he wasn't even attracted to me. He just needed a date that night, he said.”

Brannon frowned. It disturbed him that Jennings might have had ulterior motives for that date. Had he been planning to murder Garner and wanted to use Josette as an alibi? Or had he had darker motives?

“You're wondering why he asked me, aren't you?” she murmured. “I've been wondering myself. Especially since, once we got there, he was never with me.”

He scowled. “Where were the Webbs?”

“Bib was dancing with his personal assistant—you remember, that shy little brunette. She was really nervous and uncomfortable. I expect that's why he paid special attention to her. I remember Silvia coming back inside and finding them together and making a terrible scene.”

“Becky,” he murmured absently. “Becky Wilson. She's on his campaign staff for the senate, too. She's devoted to him. In fact, I think she'd do anything short of murder to protect him.”

“I got that impression, too. But I liked her,” she recalled.

He gave her a pointed glance. “How did you like Silvia?”

Josette grimaced. “I didn't. And considering the rest of the guest list, I felt as out of place as stale bread,” she confessed. “I recognized people I'd only ever seen on the news or at political rallies. Dale said she'd asked him to invite me, but she ignored me completely until I had two cups of that spiked punch and started wobbling. Then she insisted on taking me home. She was cold sober, too.” She smiled impishly. “Her husband wasn't. Every time he looked her way, he took another cup of punch. He even gave Becky one, but she had the foresight to smell it and put it down, untouched.”

He was trying to remember something; something important. It was there, he just couldn't grasp it.

While he was trying to, his car phone rang. He pushed the speaker button and Jones's voice came clearly over it.

“Brannon, it's Alice Jones at the medical examiner's office. I've got your cause of death.”

“Okay, Jones,” he said, pausing for a traffic light.

“Mrs. Jennings was killed by severe blunt force
trauma to the back of the head. There's an odd indentation in the skull…”

“Oval?” he asked at once. “Like a blackjack might have made?”

There was a pause. “Come to think of it…”

“Jones, check back in the records for the autopsy results on Henry Garner, June, two years ago. You may find a match in that odd indentation.”

“G-a-r-n-e-r?”
She spelled it out.

“That's it. And let me know what you find, would you?”

“Will do. But don't get used to me calling you like this, Brannon,” she added in a husky tone. “You're not bad-looking, and you have that sexy Texas Ranger badge and belt buckle, but you have to remember that I have hunky movie stars standing in line just to hear the sound of my sultry voice… Hello? Hello?”

Brannon had already hit the switch and was laughing himself sick.

“There is only one Alice Jones,” Josette mused. “I miss talking to her since I moved to Austin.”

He glanced at her whimsically. “I'll mention you in my will if you can get her to move there, too.”

She chuckled. “Sorry. I've got a Phil Douglas in my
own office. I don't need an Alice Jones in the Austin medical examiner's office to drive me even battier.”

His eyes went back to traffic. “You seem to fit in well with the district attorney's staff here.”

Josette nodded. “I can fit in most places. And they're a great bunch of folks to work with. But, I like Austin.”

“Why?” he persisted. “Because I'm not there?”

Her hands gripped her briefcase. “You haven't been here for two years, either, Brannon,” she reminded him.

“You know why I left,” he replied. His silver eyes glanced in her direction and his deep voice dropped softly. “When you feel really reckless, you might ask why I came back.”

“Not my business,” she said firmly. She wasn't going to open that can of worms.

Unexpectedly Brannon turned off the highway onto the paved service road that led to his apartment building through a back street, his expression taut and uncompromising.

“I want to go home,” Josette protested.

“I want to talk.”

“Use the phone.”

He ignored that. He pulled into his usual parking spot in the underground garage and cut off the engine, turning to her.

“Aren't you tired, just a little, of running from the past?” he asked seriously.

He made her uncomfortable with that level stare, even though she couldn't see it clearly under the wide brim of his Stetson in the darkened garage.

“I'm only here to help solve a murder,” she said. “Afterward, I'll go back to Austin, to my own life…”

“You'll go home to a lonely apartment with only the television for company,” he interrupted. “You'll eat TV dinners or takeout. You'll spend your evenings working through computer files of information, and during the day you'll talk to other people in law enforcement and it will be business. Just business. When you go to bed, maybe you'll dream, but you'll still be alone. What sort of life is that?”

“Your sort,” she threw back curtly.

His face tautened and then relaxed. His shoulders moved. “Touché.”

“You're happy enough,” Josette pointed out.

“Do you really think so?” he replied. “I live for my job. It's all I've lived for during the past fourteen years, with minor encounters that wouldn't even qualify as romance. Except for the brief time I spent with you two years ago,” he emphasized, “I've lived like a hermit.”

Her heart jumped. She couldn't manage a reply.

“And you're still a virgin,” he said doggedly. “Why?”

She opened her mouth, but she couldn't get any words to come out.

“Don't bother trotting out that tired old story that you have principles,” Brannon said before she could speak. “You want me. You wanted me then, and you want me now.”

“We all have these annoying little weaknesses that we can't quite overcome,” she shot back with ruffled pride.

He lifted an eyebrow and let his gaze drop to her mouth. “Why try to overcome it?”

“I don't want to have an affair with you.”

He shrugged. “I'm not much on affairs, myself.”

“That makes it even worse, Brannon,” she said icily. “I'm even less in the market for a one-night stand.”

“I don't do those, either.”

Josette frowned. She stared at him evenly. She couldn't quite grasp what he was saying.

Brannon sighed. “You don't have a problem with abstinence yourself, but it doesn't occur to you that anyone else might have the same ideals—especially a man. Isn't that a little sexist in itself?”

She lifted both eyebrows. “I will never believe that you're a virgin, Brannon,” she drawled.

“I'm not,” he replied solemnly. “But I'm not promiscuous, either. And, as I mentioned already, for the past two years I haven't touched a woman.”

Her worried eyes searched his hard, lean face, looking for answers.

“Why?” she blurted out.

“Why haven't you ended up in some other man's bed?” he threw the words right back at her. “I don't want anyone else.” Brannon paused and his eyes narrowed. “And neither do you, whether or not you're willing to admit it to me.”

Her body clenched at the insinuation. It might be true, but, then, she didn't have to go around admitting things like that to the one man in the world who'd been nothing but an endless headache to her. Conceit was a character-destroying vice in a man. Besides, he'd be insufferable if she admitted that she wanted only him.

“Why did you bring me here?” Josette asked, avoiding an answer.

He pursed his lips and his eyes began to twinkle. “Because in addition to meat loaf, I can make chicken and broccoli crepes,” he said unexpectedly.

It was the last reply she expected. “Excuse me?”

“You always wanted to go to the same French restaurant when we were dating,” he reminded her, “be
cause you loved those crepes. The restaurant's gone out of business, but I found the chef and got him to teach me how to make the crepes.”

“Why?” she exclaimed.

His lips pursed. “A little flattery, a little exquisite cuisine, a little classic tenor sax music…” He leaned toward her with a suggestive smile. “A little minor surgery…?”

She flushed and whacked him with a newsletter.

Brannon sighed. “Ah, well, there's always tomorrow.” He got out of the SUV and went around to open the door for her. “You can leave those files in here,” he said, putting her briefcase in the floorboard. “I'm not talking business over my crepes.”

He eased her hand into his and held it all the way up the elevator. When he opened the door to his apartment and pulled her inside, he nudged her body up against the closed door and propped his lean hands on either side of her head. He looked down into her eyes for a long time, watching the telltale signs of her attraction as they broke through her reserve.

“Nice,” he murmured. “After two years, you still start trembling when I come close, like this.” He leaned down, so that his powerful body was touching hers from breast to thigh. He felt her intake of breath on his lips. “I can feel your heart beating against my chest,” he
murmured, and his hips began a slow, sensuous revolution against her own. He stiffened with the arousal that was instantaneous.

“Marc!” she exclaimed, embarrassed.

His teeth nibbled at her upper lip and his eyes closed so that he could enjoy the taste of her. “Mint and coffee,” he breathed, nudging her lips apart. “You always tasted of coffee and smelled of roses.” He levered even closer. His own heart was racing now, and one long leg eased between both of hers. She didn't even protest this time.

Her nails bit into his chest helplessly as her mouth followed the open, teasing pressure of his hard lips.

“Hell, don't play. Touch!” Brannon guided her fingers to the snaps that held his creamy Western-style shirt together.

Josette didn't need prompting after that. Her fingers ripped it open to the shiny silver and gold metal of his belt buckle with the Texas Rangers logo embossed on it. Her hands found thick, rough hair over the warm, damp muscles of his chest and burrowed into it even as her mouth pushed up at his to tempt it into longer, deeper contact.

He smiled as he kissed her with slow enjoyment. “Grier may be something with a K-Bar,” he whispered
into her yielded lips, “but I'm in a class all by myself with you. Open your mouth a little more, Josie….”

His leg began to move seductively between hers and made her tremble. She kissed him back helplessly, with a tiny little moan of pure pleasure as her arms reached up and around his neck.