Confessions (20 page)

She felt so warm. So soft. Clint wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. He pressed his lips against her throat, feeling her blood beat.

The dream lingered.

Murmuring her name, he ran his hand down her body, vaguely surprised to find that she was naked. Laura's weakness, he'd been delighted to discover, was frothy silk, satin and lace lingerie, which he loved to take his time stripping away.

An unfamiliar, but erotic scent surrounded her like a
seductive cloud, making Clint wonder, through the mists clouding his mind, when she had changed her perfume. But then her nimble fingers unbuckled his belt and she began massaging him and the puzzle was immediately forgotten.

He touched her in all the intimate places he'd learned she liked. On cue, she moaned and arched against him, her nails raking down his back, her thighs trembling as he brought her to climax with only his clever, stroking touch.

He held her, waiting for the shudders to subside.

“My turn,” she whispered. Slipping her fingers beneath the elastic waistband of his briefs, she caressed him with a feathery soft touch that made him ache.

“God, I've missed you, Laurie,” he murmured groggily, steeped in the dream, in the fantasy.

“I've missed you too, baby,” she murmured silkily, freeing his erection. She ran a fingernail up its length, circling the tip in a teasingly seductive way that sent thrills of pleasure humming through his body. “And I've missed this.”

When her mouth slid over him, Clint thrust his hands into her hair and surrendered to the moment.

He came quickly, calling out Laura's name at the moment of release.

His body was still throbbing when she ran her lips up his chest. “That was nice, wasn't it?”

Clint murmured a sleepy agreement.

“Nicer than with your married mistress?”

Reality returned swiftly, bringing with it a killer headache and the unwilling knowledge that he'd just made one of the biggest mistakes of his life. Cursing, Clint forced open his eyes and turned on the lamp. The woman lying on top of him was definitely not the woman of his dreams.

“Fredericka.”

“In the flesh,” she agreed, pressing her breasts against his chest.

“Dammit, Freddi—” He pushed her off and sat up. Lightning bolts shot through his skull. “Oh, Christ.”

“Poor baby.” Her voice was languid and husky, her eyes vaguely amused. Appearing unperturbed by his rejection, she reached out and stroked her fingers over his forehead. “I'll get you an aspirin.”

“I don't want any damn aspirin.” Clint brushed her away and stumbled out of the room and down the hall into the kitchen, where he took a beer out of the refrigerator and chugged it down. His stomach rebelled for a long, dangerous moment, but then the alcohol began to numb the pain. His legs were a little steadier as he returned to his office.

“All right, Freddi.” He jerked his briefs back on, not bothering to turn them right side out. Then he pulled up a straight chair, turned it around and straddled it. “What's the game?”

She was stark naked save for the diamond studs that glittered coldly at her earlobes. Appearing totally unperturbed by her nudity, she perched on the end of the couch and crossed her long legs. “I thought you could probably use a little feminine comfort. After the terrible thing that happened to Laura.”

“I thought Laura was your best friend,” he mumbled.

“She is. Was,” Freddi corrected with a frown. “But she's dead, Clint. As you undoubtedly know all too well.”

His head was still throbbing and his mind was still muddled by the copious amount of alcohol he'd ingested, which was why it took a little while for her implication to sink in.

“Are you saying you think I killed her?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Well, you are the obvious choice, sweetheart. Considering the fact that we both
know she never would have gone through with that divorce.”

“I don't know that.”

“Matthew wouldn't have let her. And he would have seen you dead before letting you screw up all his plans for Alan.”

Clint wondered if her accusation was merely a lucky shot in the dark, or if Freddi somehow knew about the fight between he and Matthew the night of Laura's murder. The night Swann had threatened not only to burn down his barn and all his horses, but kill him as well.

“I don't get it.” He dragged his hand through his hair. “If you honestly think I killed your best friend, why would you want anything to do with me?”

“I told you,” Freddi said patiently. “I've missed you. Perhaps Laura's death has made me uncharacteristically introspective, but lately I've been thinking about old times and decided perhaps I was a bit hasty giving you up for that silly old commodities broker. Even if he was richer than God.”

Clint decided not to mention that he'd never been hers to give up. Sure, he and Freddi had rolled around in the hay from time to time. But what man in the county hadn't slept with Fredericka Palmer? There had even been, for a time, rumors about her and Matthew Swann.

Her attitude, and her words, reminded Clint he'd never really liked the forthright Realtor. “Let me give you a little word of advice, sweetheart,” he muttered. “Sneaking into bed with me after I've passed out sure as hell isn't the way to start things up again.”

“You liked it.”

There was no way he could deny that. “I didn't know it was you.”

“So?”

“So, doesn't that bother you? That I thought you were Laura?”

“Not really.” When she shrugged her shoulders, her breasts jiggled. “Everyone's entitled to a fantasy life. Why, to tell you the truth, there was a moment there, just before I came, when I pretended you were our manly new sheriff.”

She flashed him the smile that was one of her best tools. A sensual glint highlighted her eyes as she reached up and lazily combed her hands through her tousled jet hair. The gesture showed her surgically enhanced breasts to their best advantage.

Coming over to stand in front of him, her rose-tipped breasts a breath away from his mouth, she gave him a sly smile Clint didn't quite trust.

“Why don't you go take a shower,” she suggested. “No offense, darling, but you do smell a bit like a saloon.”

She ruffled his hair. “And while you freshen up, I'll make us some coffee.”

Clint could resist the temptation of those smooth round breasts. Just as he could resist the pink tongue that came out to wetly circle her pouty lips.

But coffee was another matter.

“You've got a deal. On one condition.”

“What's that?”

“You get dressed first.”

Keeping her eyes on his, Freddi touched a hand to his face. “You sure that's what you want?”

He eased away an instant before her lips touched his. “Positive.”

“If you insist.” She bent over and began picking up the clothing she'd folded over the back of his recliner. “And later, after you're cleaned up and have had your
coffee, you and I have a little unfinished business to discuss.”

As he stood in the shower, the hot water sluicing over his mutinous body, Clint leaned against the tile, closed his eyes and wondered how the hell he was going to extricate himself from the unholy mess he'd gotten himself into.

 

From a secluded spot outside the ranch house, Patti Greene witnessed Fredericka's arrival. Not long after that, she saw Clint through the kitchen window. That he was naked told her all she needed to know.

Fury flowed hotly through her veins. It was bad enough that Laura Swann's sister was already moving in on him—Patti had nearly gagged at that tender scene in the barn the other day, when Clint had given the Hollywood bitch his favorite mare to ride—but now Freddi was trying to stake her claim on him, too.

Which wasn't fair, since everyone knew that Fredericka had dumped him to marry that rich old guy in Chicago. The same man who conveniently died shortly after their honeymoon, leaving his bride a very rich widow. As if the Realtor needed any more money! As Patti thought about all those bills piling up on her kitchen counter, the ones with all those fluorescent red past-due stickers, her blood ran even hotter.

Going back to her ten-year-old truck, which needed a valve job she couldn't afford, Patti pulled her former husband's black steel commando boot knife from the glove compartment. It was one of the few things the son of a bitch had forgotten to take with him when he took off.

After the way she'd shown up to support him while his married mistress was being buried, Clint had no right fucking any other woman! Just as Freddi had no right to move in on another woman's man.

Fed up with being a victim, Patti decided to teach the
pair a lesson. Clint and Freddi were going to pay, she decided, tightening her fingers around the black handle. Both of them. The same way Mariah Swann had.

Everyone in town knew Mariah had always resented her older sister's favored status in the Swann family. Which didn't make it all that surprising, Patti supposed, that she'd subsequently staked her claim on her dead sister's lover, as a way of proclaiming victory, even after Laura was in the grave.

But it still wasn't fair, dammit! Mariah Swann had everything—looks, money, fame. But obviously, all that wasn't enough for the greedy, rich bitch.

Patti frowned, thinking that it was too bad Mariah hadn't fallen all the way over that cliff yesterday.

A
fter leaving Fletcher's room, Trace took the stairs to the third floor.

Mariah opened the door seconds after his knock. “Well?” she demanded.

“Hello, to you, too.” She was wearing her floaty gauze skirt again, topped with a lacy white, off-the-shoulder peasant blouse that made her resemble a sexy shepherdess. Delicate pastel seashell earrings, like miniature wind chimes, dangled nearly to those smooth, tanned bare shoulders.

“If that's a dig about my manners, don't bother. We don't have time to be subtle, Callahan.”

“We? I hadn't realized the commissioners had appointed you my deputy.”

“Don't get up on your high horse.” She was still irritated by his refusal to let her accompany him to this latest crime scene. “I've learned over the years that being ladylike and submissive doesn't cut it in a man's world.”

Night was settling its dark cloak over Whiskey River. Outside the window, Mariah heard the unmistakable
sound of John Philip Sousa rising from the nearby town square. A thought occurred to her. “Why aren't you providing extra security at the rally?”

“Fletcher called off his speech in light of this latest incident. J.D. was eager to strut his uniform in front of his entire hometown, so I put him in charge of crowd control.” What little need there was for such things in Whiskey River.

“I'm truly sorry Heather's dead. How did she die?”

“Ms. Martin's death is officially being ruled due to ‘undetermined causes.'”

“I saw you say that during your television press conference.” She didn't mention how downright sexy he'd looked, standing on the courthouse steps in front of that bank of microphones in his warrior pose. “But you and I both know that's a cop-out.”

“Not really.” He put his hat on the coffee table and sat down on the couch. “
You
should know that calling a cause of death isn't always cut-and-dried. Ms. Martin was found unconscious, lying facedown in the bathtub, which ruled out natural causes, which tend to be from disease.

“Since she was nude and there were no notes or anything else to suggest she'd taken her own life, suicide was also dismissed as cause.”

The crime writer in Mariah was momentarily distracted. “What does her being nude have to do with anything?” She sat down beside him, her usual bright wildflower scent seeming hotter tonight. Sexier. Resisting the temptation to see how much of her silky skin carried that provocative scent, he pulled back. “Most suicide victims found in bathtubs are fully clothed.”

“Oh.” Trace watched her mulling his explanation over. He could see the wheels turning in that gorgeous blond head and figured she was filing the information away for a future plotline.

“That makes sense, I guess. Kind of like a woman putting on her best nightgown before taking a handful of Seconal.”

“Exactly. Anyway, to get back to the point, there
were
things that made the medical examiner uncomfortable calling the death accidental.”

“What things?” She was back on track.

Trace shook his head. “Sorry. Although I've done my best to accommodate you, like I told you when you wanted to come to Ms. Martin's room with me, I have to set some limits on this investigation.”

“Whatever those things were,” she probed, “I take it they weren't enough to call the death a homicide?”

“No. They weren't.” Not officially. But those bruises on the base of Heather Martin's skull were enough to convince him that the woman's death had not been any bathroom accident.

“Damn.”

She was on her feet again in a furious swirl of skirts, pacing the floor. Trace had already determined that Mariah's slender body contained too much pent-up energy to allow her to sit still for very long.

He wondered, not for the first time, how such vitality would translate in bed. Her long legs were clearly visible through the gauze and as he imagined them wrapped around his hips, fire spread through his blood, deep into his bones.

She paused long enough to light a cigarette from the half-empty pack on the bar, then resumed pacing. “So that's it? Alan gets away with another murder?”

“No one's going to get away with anything,” Trace corrected mildly.

It was time, he decided.

“I need to ask you a question.”

The reluctance in his tone caught her immediate attention, causing her to stop in her tracks.

“Why did you call Fredericka Palmer last week?”

“What?” It was not what she'd been expecting. “How did you know about that?”

“She mentioned, in passing, that you'd called from L.A. to set up an appointment. And that you'd were quite secretive. She suggested you didn't want your sister to find out about the meeting.”

“Secretive. Christ.” Mariah frowned, gave her cigarette a sharp look of annoyance and crushed it out. “Fredericka always had a flair for the overdramatic. Perhaps she should be the one writing for television instead of me.”

“So it's not the truth? You didn't ask her to keep your appointment to herself?”

She could have written this script herself. Mariah sighed and found herself wishing for a commercial break to ease the tension that had suddenly stretched between them.

“That's an overstatement. I did ask her not to mention our appointment. But not because I was trying to hide anything.”

“Uh-huh.” Trace fell silent.

She recognized the technique even as she felt it working. “Don't pull out the Joe Friday act with me, Callahan. It's the truth, dammit.”

“I didn't say it wasn't.”

Another silence.

Irritation that he could suspect her of killing anyone, let alone her sister, warred with Mariah's relief that he was not about to let any stone go unturned in the search for Laura's murderer.

“I called Freddi because I was interested in looking into buying property.”

“Here? In Whiskey River?”

She could hear the disbelief in his tone and understood
the reason. “I know. I never made any secret of the fact that I couldn't wait to get out of town. But I was just an angry, mixed-up kid when I left, and although I know it sounds like a cliché, lately I've been missing any sense of roots.” She'd also been missing her sister.
Too late,
Mariah reminded herself yet again. She'd come home too damn late.

Trace watched the cloud of sorrow move across her turquoise eyes. “So you were intending to leave L.A.?”

“Not entirely. I've been thinking of moving into feature films for a long time. I love my work, but lately I've been feeling boxed in by television's restraints.

“Unlike TV programs, feature films aren't dependent on commercial sponsors. You don't have to worry about some CEO getting spooked by any trumped-up letter-writing campaigns from conservative watchdog groups.

“Plus, the longer length allows more depth of characterization and story. So, when I was offered an opportunity to write screenplays, I jumped at the chance.”

“I thought you had to live in Los Angeles to write screenplays.”

“It doesn't hurt,” Mariah agreed. “Especially in the beginning. But I've been in the business a long time, I've paid my dues and my credentials are strong. So, although I'm not giving up my beach house, at this point in my career, I've earned the luxury of doing the work I love, while living away from the hype and artifice of Hollywood.”

Although Trace wanted to believe Mariah, the professional in him could not entirely count her out.

“All that sounds reasonable,” Trace allowed. “So why did you ask Fredericka to keep your meeting confidential?”

She angled her chin, daring him to call her a liar. “Because I wanted to test the waters. I knew there was a
chance that I was romanticizing the move. And since I'd already supplied Whiskey River with more than my share of gossip, I didn't want to be perceived as a failure if this trip didn't work out.”

Trace had to ask. “I've got another question.”

The man who'd massaged away her tension after her sister's funeral was gone. In his place was a stiff-jawed, no-nonsense cop who would stop at nothing to close his case.

“Ask away.”

Her smile was a lie. He hoped her answer would be the truth. “Did you know your sister was going to leave you her ranch?”

Even expecting the question, it hurt. “No, Sheriff. I did not somehow discover that Laura was going to rewrite her will and no, I did not find out that she was leaving me the ranch, and even if I had, there was no way in hell I would have killed her for it.”

Temper flared. “Dammit, despite our problems, despite all those years we weren't speaking to one another, I loved my sister, Callahan. And she was the only person who ever truly loved me back.

“She didn't care that I was a famous television writer. And although she sent me flowers when I won my last Emmy, I knew she'd feel the same way about me if I was a waitress down at The Branding Iron Café. All she ever wanted was for people she cared for to be happy.”

Mariah took a deep, shuddering breath. “Laura was the gentlest person I ever knew. Will ever know. I gave her hell over the years, but when most people would have written me off as hopeless, she continued to love me, for myself, with all my flaws. She was the only person ever in my life who loved me openly and honestly and without strings.”

Despite her vow not to cry, a single tear escaped, trail
ing wetly down her cheek. She brushed it away with a furious, unsteady swipe of her hand. “Which is why I'm going to make damn sure her killer is arrested and put behind bars if it's the last thing I do.”

He watched her valiant attempt to remain brave and felt something inside his heart clench. Despite her bold words, Mariah appeared younger than her years. Defenseless. And distractingly desirable. “I believe that's my job.”

She looked at him and her lips curved into a faint smile. Unlike the earlier feigned one, this smile was honest and trembled slightly with lingering emotion from her passionate outburst.

“Of course it is. But don't forget, Sheriff, even the Lone Ranger needed Tonto's help from time to time.”

Trace returned her smile, taking her words as an offering of a truce.

“May I ask a question?” Her voice was soft, but not the least bit hesitant.

He knew what was coming, knew he should stop it, but found himself powerless to resist. “Go ahead.”

She sat back down on the couch, tucked her legs beneath her, and turned toward him. “Is this interrogation over?”

Her beguiling scent surrounded him, drawing him in. “It wasn't an interrogation.”

She leaned forward, until their faces were scant inches apart and looked deep into his eyes. “All right.” Her breath fanned his lips like a soft summer breeze. “Let me put it another way.” Needs too long denied stirred painfully in his gut. And lower still. “Are you through asking me questions, Sheriff?”

Unable to resist her sultry siren's lure, he ran the back of his hand down the side of her face. Trace wasn't exactly thrilled by the way such hard-fought control seemed to
disintegrate whenever he allowed himself to get close to this woman.

To lose his edge was dangerous. It was insane. But knowing the risk didn't change a thing.

He wanted her. Needed her. With an intensity that bordered on desperation. Although he'd done his best to resist temptation, what he wanted to do, needed to do, was make love to Mariah. Now, while he was only thinking of her, and not all the reasons why he shouldn't.

What he was on the verge of doing was against every police policy he'd ever been taught. Trace knew he was standing on the banks of his own personal Rubicon. Cross this and there'd be no turning back.

Reminding himself he'd never been known for playing by the book, Trace said, “I do have one more question.”

Mariah turned her head, brushing her lips against his knuckles. “Yes.” Her turquoise eyes, lustrous with sensual feminine invitation, smiled up into his from beneath her lush fringe of lashes. “The answer is yes.”

As he lowered his head, Trace watched Mariah's ripe lush lips part in anticipation. His desire to take warred with his desire to give. And although some primal inner urge had him wanting to drag her to the floor and take her fast and hard, another, even more elemental part of him vowed to use whatever patience he'd honed over the years, whatever skill he'd acquired, to bring her pleasure.

Mariah expected passion. Braced herself for it. But in contrast to the heated kiss that had rocked them both the evening of Laura's funeral, this time Trace's lips did little more than nibble at hers, testing. Teasing. Tempting.

Their breaths mingled, became one.

With a soft moan, she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her breath caught, then shuddered out. Her lips clung to his, parting like the silken petals of a rose, offering more, inviting everything.

Her taste, as fresh as a spring morning, as sweet as summer sunshine, was drugging him, making him weak.
Too soon.
Not having realized the edge of desire could be sharp and so jagged, he dragged his mouth away and began lingeringly kissing her silky cheek. Her temple. The tender skin at the nape of her neck.

“You've changed your perfume.” Passion radiated from every fragrant pore. He was hypnotizing her, drawing her into the mists without so much as touching her. Her mind clouded, her blood sang. It was both enervating and exciting at the same time.

“Yes,” she managed to say on a soft, shimmering sigh as he nibbled lazily on her earlobe. Her head fell back, allowing his clever, wicked lips access to her throat.

Outside a band was playing patriotic marches in the town square, families were feasting on the Cow Belles' annual barbecue, children were playing tag and hide-and-seek among the oak and cottonwood trees as they had for generations, since Whiskey River's earliest days.