Blood Ties (60 page)

I tried to shower without getting my knee bandages wet, which is quite difficult, let me tell you that for free. Knees stubbornly want to get in the way.

I wasn’t sure what to wear for dinner so I compromised, teaming black dress shorts (not wanting to wear jeans because of my knees) with a beautiful floaty flowery top and some nice, moderately-heeled sandals. The shorts showcased my leg bruises from the Bycraft kicking with spectacular effect, but I was struggling to find a part of my body that wasn’t bruised.

I applied some light makeup, pulling a face in the mirror at my injuries, brushed my hair out until it fell softly around my shoulders and added a quick spray of my favourite perfume before I deemed I was ready. I examined myself critically in the mirror, not happy with my reflection. There was no doubt about it – I was an absolute fright-fest. I shouldn’t be going out in public. I should instead be hiding in my wardrobe for a couple of weeks so I didn’t frighten the local kiddies. I hoped it didn’t put the Sarge off his dinner staring at me across the table from him while he ate.

It seemed wrong, but I carefully strapped my knife to my thigh as I always did. I had usually found it a mood-killer when I’d been dating, which I guess was why I’d only had three boyfriends in my life, including Abe and Jake. Not that this was a date or anything, I reminded myself with a self-conscious laugh. God, what a thought! Dating my own sergeant! That would just be so . . . wrong.

Shouting out goodbye and promising not to be too late as if I was still sixteen, I drove to the Sarge’s house, singing to myself all the way. It felt good to be alive, regardless of the pain that mere breathing, let alone singing, brought on.

He was on the phone when I knocked on his front door. He ushered me into the lounge room, his warm hand on my back as he continued to speak into the receiver. He left the room, the phone clamped to his ear, listening. While he was busy, I took the chance to re-examine his photographs. Now that I knew that the silver-haired man with his mother in the engagement photo was his stepfather, I would bet that the other photo of him and an older man was of his father because they looked so alike.
Detective Fuller, here you come
, I teased myself before browsing the city newspaper that he’d left lying on the coffee table, flipping disinterestedly through news and gossip about the rich and famous.

I didn’t mean to listen in on his phone conversation, but he wasn’t exactly the most softly spoken man I’d ever met and his voice was raised as well. Plus, I’ve already admitted that I am a very nosy person, so I was kind of craning an ear, I’ll admit.

“I’m not trying to stop you having fun and I’m not trying to ruin your life, Melissa,” he snapped impatiently through clenched teeth as if they’d had this argument a hundred times before. “I just want to know when you’re coming home. It’s a simple question. Why can’t you give me a simple answer? I want to fix a date and start planning the wedding. Surely that’s not too much to ask of you?”

He listened for a while. “Oh, for God’s sake! I never said that. This place isn’t that bad. You’re putting words in my mouth again . . . Stop being so bloody melodramatic all the time.” He listened again. “I don’t want to go over all that again . . . Okay, have it your own way. You usually do. I’ll talk to you later.”

Wow! No “I love you” or “I miss you” from either of them it seemed. A relationship in trouble? That might explain his decision to move to Little Town and maybe even his moodiness since he’d arrived.

He returned to the lounge room, valiantly rearranging his features from annoyance to hospitality. “Sorry about leaving you alone, Tess.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I dismissed easily, slightly guilty at my eavesdropping. “Now, can I help you do anything for dinner?”

“You can come into the kitchen and keep me company while I cook,” he insisted, so I did. We chatted casually while he oiled and seasoned the steaks he was going to grill and checked on the baked potatoes in the oven. I chipped in by slicing up the salad vegetables for him, grabbing whatever I fancied from his fridge.

My phone rang, vibrating in the pocket of my shorts and I put my knife down to answer.

“What are you doing at Maguire’s place?” Jake wanted to know, a distinct edge to his voice.

“How do you know that I’m here?” If he wasn’t going to bother saying hello, then I wasn’t going to either.

“Not because you told me,” he replied tartly.

I countered coolly, “I wasn’t aware I had to tell you everything that I did.”

“You do when it involves another man.”

“The Sarge offered to make me dinner after a bloody horrible day. I accepted. End of story.”

“I told you that I don’t want you getting too friendly with him.”

“Jake, don’t you start on that again,” I warned in a low hiss. I would not be dictated to by a man. Especially a Bycraft man.

“I shouldn’t have to rely on my brother to tell me what my girlfriend is up to when I’m not around.”

“I’m not ‘up to’ anything,” I said crossly. “I’m just having dinner. And if you haven’t got anything more important to discuss and don’t even care enough to ask me just how craptacular my day was, I’m hanging up now.”

He hung up first. I stormed over to the window and poked my head outside.

“
Piss off, Denny Bycraft!
” I shouted and was rewarded with the sound of him crashing through the shrubbery, his pounding footsteps retreating into the distance.

“Who the hell was that?” asked the Sarge, startled, running to the window and peering out, tongs still in hand.

“My stalker. Denny Bycraft. Jake’s younger brother. He’s been obsessed with me since primary school. We were in the same grade together. He’s been my unwanted second shadow almost my whole life.”

He digested that information silently, shaking his head as he did. “I’ve never met a person like you before.”

“Is that good or bad, Sarge?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. And please stop calling me Sarge when we’re not at work.”

“Sorry. Finn.” It still felt so strange calling him that. It was too intimate or something. I decided that I simply wouldn’t call him anything while we weren’t at work.

We prepped in silence for a while. Self-consciously, I noticed his eyes kept flicking down to my knife. If he’d been any other kind of man, I would have automatically assumed that he was checking out my legs, bruises and all.

“Do you really take that knife with you everywhere?” he finally asked, his curiosity overwhelming him.

“Yes. I told you before that I always carry it, except when I’m in uniform and have my gun instead.” I continued to chop passionately but carelessly. Every finger was in danger. His knives were Japanese-crafted, exquisite and exceptionally sharp. Not to mention hideously expensive, well beyond my budget, but not my dreams.

“Even here at my house, when you’re with another cop? Relaxing?”

“I have to drive here and back by myself, and there’s the walking to and from my house and your house to my Land Rover as well.” Chop, chop, chop, my hands sliced in agitation. I hated explaining my complicated life.

“Things are that unsafe for you in this place?”

I glanced up at him with a small laugh. “Do you really need to ask, after what’s happened this week?”

He absorbed that. “How long have you being carrying it for?”

I sighed at his inquisitiveness and put my knife down to face him. “Since I was competent enough to use it properly and not injure myself.”

“Have you ever needed to use it?”

“God, yes! How do you think Red Bycraft got that scar on his neck?” I wasn’t going to answer any more questions. Throwing him a huge hint to drop the subject, I asked with blinding cheeriness, “So, what’s your favourite salad dressing recipe? I’ll make it for you.”

He regarded me thoughtfully for a moment and then mercifully changed the topic. “I should be asking you that. You’re the guest.”

“Okay, I’ll make my favourite,” I said, flashing him a brilliantly fake smile. I busied myself with lemon juice, olive oil, Dijon mustard, cracked pepper, salt and fresh thyme while he grilled the steaks. He had a well-stocked pantry for a man living by himself. I was impressed. If Jake had been in the same situation, I would have found a lifetime’s supply of two-minute noodles in the pantry, a freezer full of Lean Cuisine meals and a fridge full of beer.

“Sounds as though it’s an evening for difficult partners?” he smiled wryly over his shoulder as he closed the grill. He must have known that I could overhear his conversation with Melissa, just as he was privy to mine with Jake.

“Jake’s being ridiculously possessive, which is not like him,” I confessed unwillingly.

“Melissa doesn’t want to come home,” he admitted.

I looked over at him and sympathised. “Oh, that’s tough for you.”

“Yep.” Said curtly and unemotionally. “She was supposed to return at Christmas so we could move here together. But here we are – two months later and no sign of her coming home.”

“She doesn’t want to move here?” I guessed.

He shook his head. “That’s a definite no. She’s a city person.” He shot me a fleeting look. “She didn’t want me to apply for a transfer in the first place. We had a few arguments about it. I’m trying to convince her that it’s not forever.”

“She’ll probably come around to the idea eventually,” I consoled, not having any idea if that was likely or not. I couldn’t imagine not being one hundred per cent supportive of my fiance’s career, if I ever found myself in the happy situation of having one.

We chatted over dinner, enjoying a very tasty glass of red wine as promised. I asked him what drew him to the police force and once again he answered readily. He told me that he’d completed a law degree and had articled for a big city practice on graduation, hating every second of it. The minute he was admitted as a legal practitioner, he decided to chuck it all in and apply to the police academy instead, wanting a career more oriented to public service than moneymaking. He admitted that his mother had been less than thrilled at his decision to become a cop, thinking that he would be wasting his degree and worried for his safety, so he never discussed the ugly side of his job with her. He’d considered becoming a police prosecutor to use his legal training, but enjoyed being a general duties cop much more than he’d ever expected and was happy to continue as one for the time being.

Casually he ground more pepper over his potato and asked, “You ever think about going to university, Tess? It could really enhance your career.”

I froze, a forkful of salad halfway to my mouth and smiled at him with unmistakable coolness.

“Oh shit,” he said regretfully, thumping the pepper grinder down carelessly on the table. “I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”

I nodded slowly, munching on the salad with deliberateness, holding his eyes the whole time.

“Okay, don’t hold back. Give it to me,” he prompted, palms flat on the table, elbows out, as if bracing himself. “You’re a Rhodes’ Scholar with six PhDs who’s written eighteen acclaimed textbooks on modern policing, right?”

“Right,” I giggled, forking up some more salad. “And don’t you ever forget it.”

“I promise I won’t, Dr Professor Fuller.”

“That’s Dr Professor Senior Constable Fuller to you.”

He smiled, with a nice touch of humbleness. “What did you study?”

I told him that I had a degree in justice studies and a master’s degree in criminology that I’d completed part-time in my first few years working in Benara. He pulled a comically hangdog face and palm-smacked his forehead, which made me giggle again. He asked me which university I’d attended. Judging by the surprise on his face when I told him we’d gone to the same university (although I’d calculated that he would have already graduated by the time I started), I gathered he’d automatically taken for granted that I’d gone to one of the state’s regional universities and not the more academically prestigious sandstone university situated in the city. I let it go though. He was learning not to presume things about me and that was the main thing.

We cleared up the dishes and afterwards settled down on his expensive leather lounge to chat generally for a while, Norah Jones’ lovely voice wafting softly from his stereo. I discovered that we had very divergent tastes in music. He seemed to prefer smooth female soul singers, where I tended more towards alternative and punk-type bands, the louder the better, as did Jake. But this evening I leaned against the back of his soft lounge, closed my eyes and enjoyed the mature sophisticated calmness of his music.

We did have similar tastes in movies though, both preferring comedies and exciting action and thriller films, sharing an allergy to rom coms and slasher movies, and that made it easier to talk to him. I began to unwind and I was glad that I’d agreed to eat with him, finding him much more likeable when he relaxed. Maybe we could even become friends one day?

While he changed the CD, I disappeared to the Land Rover and came back, carrying a large leather-bound book. He raised his eyebrows in curiosity. I placed it on the coffee table nervously. I’d only ever shown a few people this book before and this was always a big step for me. I took a deep breath.

“When I thought that the Bycrafts were going to kill me today, I saw on your face that you genuinely cared about what was going to happen to me,” I began.

He was surprised and offended by that statement in equal measures. “Of course I did! Tess! Why would you even say such a thing?”