Confessions (22 page)

He watched her deft, slender fingers and remembered, with vivid and painful clarity, how they'd felt on his heated flesh.

“A bunch of local teenagers. They've been setting cherry bombs off all over town.”

“It's the Fourth of July.” She finished with the shirt, but unable to resist touching him again, smoothed her
palms down the front of it. “And kids will always be kids.”

“True.” Her casual touch was almost enough to lure him back to bed. “But if I don't stop them at this stage, the next thing I know they'll be stealing cars. Then it's not that big a leap to knocking off convenience stores.”

Thinking back on some of her own juvenile stunts, Mariah frowned. “Don't you think you're exaggerating? Just a bit?”

“Someone has to make the rules.” As Mariah watched, she saw a distant shadow darken his gray eyes. “If their parents don't care enough to set boundaries, it's my job.”

His expression, so loving only minutes earlier, had turned grim. The shadow lifted from his gaze, revealing swirling emotions too painful to look at.

Curious about what drove this man who was so unlike any other man she'd ever met, but knowing this was no time to push, she said, “I knew you were one of the good guys, Callahan.”

He saw the questions in her eyes and was grateful she'd chosen not to ask them. Would she still admire him, he wondered, if she knew the truth about his rocky past? “You've been watching too many cop shows,” he grumbled, uncomfortable with compliments.

There were hidden depths there. Secret sorrows. Mariah wished she knew what they were. “Guilty,” she said with a quick grin designed to lighten the mood.

Leaving the bed, she went over to the closet. Watching her cross the room, Trace decided that as great as Mariah's ass had looked in those skintight jeans, the true test, which she passed with flying colors, was to look that good naked.

“If you catch your firecracker criminals, perhaps you can come back for a late supper,” she suggested. She pulled out a short, red silk robe that barely covered the essentials. “Room service shuts down at midnight, but…”

He'd tried telling himself that once he'd made love to Mariah Swann, his desire would pass. But he'd been wrong. Because even as he knew he was playing with fire, Trace found himself unable to resist.

“I'll try.” Succumbing to his need to taste her once more before he left, he bent his head and kissed her, a long deep kiss that made his blood hum and her knees go weak.

When the devastating kiss finally ended, Trace exhaled a rough, frustrated breath and said, “God, I want you again. But I can't promise to make it back tonight.”

“Don't worry, Sheriff.” Still slightly dazed, Mariah pressed a finger against her lips and felt the heat he'd left behind. “I'm not asking for any promises.”

They both knew they were not talking about any late suppers.

H
e didn't come back. Mariah wasn't terribly surprised. But she was disappointed.

When the antique clock chimed seven o'clock in the morning, and Trace had still not so much as called to offer an excuse, she decided she'd spent enough time sitting by the phone.

She'd always been a woman who allowed herself to be led by her emotions. Although there were times when such behavior resulted in her being hurt—such as that long-ago fight with her sister which had resulted in years of estrangement—in the long run, Mariah could not imagine living her life any other way.

Last night, with Trace, was the same. In making love with him, she'd blithely followed her heart. And if this morning, in the bright light of day, she was realizing that she may have made a misstep, the pleasure and the passion they'd brought one another was worth it.

So why did she feel so let down?

“What you need,” she decided as she blew her hair dry after her shower, dragging her brush through the long
strands with more force than necessary, “is one of Iris's gooey cinnamon rolls.”

Mariah had never met a funk that a sugar fix couldn't cure. And the one thing she'd missed about Whiskey River over all those intervening years was the café owner's oversize, homemade sweet rolls.

 

Trace was feeling frustrated and exhausted and guilty. As the hours had passed, he couldn't stop thinking about Mariah waiting for him back at the lodge. But, there were times when, like it or not, work had to come first.

Which is what he was telling himself as he sat across the table from Jessica, waiting for her to finish reading the papers found in Heather Martin's room at the lodge.

“Well?” he said, when she laid them down.

“You're right, of course. Southwest Development, Incorporated is a mob-fronted construction company.”

“Whose CEO just happened to have contributed to the senator's campaign,” Trace added.

He'd admittedly been surprised when Ben Loftin, while searching the room with J.D., had unearthed the list of contributors tucked away in the congressional aide's Filo-fax. It was, Trace considered, the first piece of investigative work he'd witnessed from the deputy during his six months in Whiskey River.

“Do you think Fletcher knows who he's taking money from?” Jessica asked.

“I wouldn't doubt it. The guy's a lot of things, but he isn't dumb. The thing is, when I first ran across Southwest in Dallas, they were paying off state legislators, trying to get gambling introduced into the state.”

“That's pretty much what they've been doing here,” Jessica revealed. “What with the lottery and the casino gambling on the reservations, and with Nevada right
across the Colorado River, there's been a push to bring a casino to Lake Havasu City.”

“Which would spread throughout the state.”

“Like measles,” Jessica agreed.

“But Fletcher wouldn't be involved in any state votes,” Trace mused out loud.

“No. But his opinion pulls a lot of weight. Let's face it, barring indictment for murder, the guy's on the fast track to the White House. Every state politician from the governor on down to the county dogcatcher wants to be on his list of political appointees. That being the case, he can pretty much call any tune he wants.”

“What do you think would happen if he took the money, then for some reason changed his mind, and decided not to back legalized gambling?”

“Double-crossing the mob is not exactly a smart career move,” Jessica responded.

“Laura's murder could have been a hit.”

The county attorney chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip. “It makes sense,” she decided reluctantly. “It also explains why the senator wasn't killed.”

“After being taught a lesson, he'd be more likely to fall back into line.”

“Most people would.”

Trace followed the thought to its logical course, trying to figure out why Heather would have been killed. “It's also possible that the Martin woman, who undoubtedly also knew where her boss's money was coming from, realized exactly how dirty that money really was when Laura got killed,” he concluded.

Jessica nodded. “And threatened to spill the beans.”

“Shit.” Trace scowled into his coffee. With this latest piece of information, the outlandish story about two masked gunmen no longer seemed all that improbable. And if they had been professional hit men, it certainly
explained how they'd been able to pull such a good disappearing act.

“I hate mysteries,” he muttered darkly.

 

When she saw Trace's Suburban parked on the street in front of The Branding Iron Café, a burst of involuntary pleasure left Mariah feeling giddy. Light-headed. And lighthearted.

A joyful anticipation was bubbling in her veins. A bubble that burst when she walked through the front door and saw Trace sharing one of the red vinyl booths at the back of the cafe with Mogollon County's Grace Kelly lookalike attorney, Jessica Ingersoll.

Mariah's first instinct was to turn and run. Now, before they saw her. Then she reminded herself that she certainly had nothing to be ashamed of. Neither, she admitted reluctantly, did Trace. He'd warned her that he was offering her no promises, just as she'd assured him she wasn't looking for any.

But that had been last night. This morning, in the clear mountain light of a new day, Mariah secretly admitted that by following her heart, she'd been led down a path that could ultimately end up hurting her.

Even as she recognized her own vulnerability, Mariah pulled up all her acting skills, pasted a bright smile on her face and headed toward the booth at the back of the restaurant.

“Don't look now,” Jessica murmured, as she noticed Mariah's approach. “But we've got company.”

He sensed her first. The energy that surrounded her like a vibrating aura crept under his skin, seeped into his bloodstream. Her scent followed, reminding him of warm feminine flesh, hot rumpled sheets and fireworks.

He slowly lowered his chipped mug to the Formica tabletop and braced himself.

“Good morning,” Mariah greeted them. There was no sign her smile or her cheerful tone were forced. “I woke up this morning with the strongest craving for Iris's cinnamon rolls. Can you imagine? After ten years?” Another smile flashed, even brighter than the first. “Better watch out, Sheriff,” she warned with a glance at the fresh cheese Danish in front of him, “Iris's sweet rolls are addictive.”

Yesterday he would have fallen for her Little Mary Sunshine routine. But that was before they'd been as intimate as two people could be. This morning, understanding that she was more complex, more vulnerable than she liked to appear, Trace could see the faint hurt in her smiling turquoise eyes, hear the faint tremor in her voice.

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Uncomfortable, he introduced the two women, watching as they checked one another out. Thinking that small-town life was definitely turning out to be more complicated than he'd expected, he slid closer to the window, making room for Mariah on the seat beside him.

“Why don't you join us?”

Jessica, watching Trace's discomfort with suppressed amusement, smiled up at Mariah over the rim of her white mug. “Please do. It's not often I have a chance to meet someone famous.”

“Actually, if the sheriff does his job,” Mariah said, a bit too sharply, she realized too late, “you'll have the opportunity to try someone a lot more famous than me.”

It was Jessica's turn to lower her mug to the table. “I assume you're talking about your brother-in-law.”

“Of course. He's guilty as sin. You know it, I know it, and the sheriff here knows it. The thing I can't understand is why the hell Alan hasn't been arrested yet.”

Although he hated the accusation lacing her tone, Trace was relieved that at least Mariah was back to revealing honest emotion.

“I don't have enough evidence to cinch a conviction. And although once in a blue moon the defense gets an opportunity to retry a conviction on appeal, an acquittal is forever.

“What do you want me to do? Pick Fletcher up without cause, have him go to trial and get off because I hadn't done my job?”

She was tempted to suggest that eating a cozy breakfast with his lover wasn't exactly doing his job. Instead Mariah said, “Alan Fletcher murdered my sister. If you two can't put him away, I'll just have to get my father's shotgun and take care of matters myself.”

“Christ, I wish you'd quit saying that,” Trace complained. “Did you ever think that perhaps your own feelings about the guy have colored your judgment? That if we did arrest him and get a conviction and he isn't guilty, that Laura's murderer would still be on the streets, free to kill some other woman's sister?”

“Are you saying you honestly don't think Alan killed Laura? And Heather?”

It was a thought that had occurred to him on more than one occasion lately. Even before Loftin had presented him with the list of campaign contributors. Alan Fletcher was obviously a highly intelligent man. Could he actually be stupid enough—desperate enough—to risk murdering not one, but two women close to him?

“I told you, at this point—”

“Everyone's a suspect.” Her frustrated huff ruffled her bangs.

“Ms. Swann,” Jessica interjected soothingly as peacemaker, “please, why don't you sit down and have some breakfast with us?”

“I don't want to interrupt anything important.” Damn, she couldn't believe how petulant she sounded.

“Actually, Trace and I have just about concluded our
business. And there's something I think you should know. Before the press learns of it.”

The bait was impossible to resist. Unballing her hands, Mariah sat down beside Trace. When their thighs brushed, she felt her pulse rate soar.

“Why do I have the feeling I'm not going to like this?”

Before Jessica or Trace could answer, the waitress—a buxom young thing in a denim miniskirt, tight red banana print cotton blouse and fringed vest—arrived at the table.

“Hi, Mariah.” Her frown was a contrast to the perky Dale Evans outfit. “It's good to have you back. But I'm so sorry about what happened to poor Laura.”

The smooth young face was vaguely familiar. “I'm sorry, but—”

“Oh, of course you don't recognize me.” There was a trill of laughter. “I'm Jennifer Trent.”

For not the first time since returning home, Mariah felt as if she'd aged a century during her time away from Whiskey River. The sexy young thing with too much makeup and waist-length palomino platinum hair was another one of the kids she used to baby-sit while in high school.

She managed a smile. “How are you doing, Jennifer?”

“Pretty good.” She poured Mariah a cup of coffee. “I graduated from NAU this year,” she revealed. “In theater.” As she leaned across the table to refill Jessica's cup, her bouncy breasts brushed against Trace's arm, something Mariah didn't believe to be an accident. “I'm only working at The Branding Iron to make money to go to Hollywood.” She refilled Trace's cup, pausing at his murmured thank-you to give him a smile brimming over with feminine invitation. “My professors say I have a lot of talent,” she revealed.

“Well, I wish you luck,” Mariah said.

“Thanks. I'll need all I can get.” She pulled her pad
out of the pocket of the tight denim skirt. “Maybe when I get to town I can look you up.” Her voice went up a little on the end, turning it into a question.

“Of course,” Mariah murmured. Then, before she found herself promising to write the girl a starring script, she ordered a pecan cinnamon roll, her tone sharper than planned.

Planning to overtip to make up for her lack of manners, Mariah turned back to Jessica. “You were saying?”

“Trace tells me that you know about a particular letter found during the search of Clint Garvey's house.”

He'd told her about it on the drive to Clint's ranch after the funeral. “The letter from Laura, suggesting that after they're married, he'll be in charge of running the ranch. Sure. But Clint explained all about that.” She turned, reminding Trace of his conversation with the rancher. “Laura loved the land, and the horses, but she was never much into the day-to-day business end of ranching.”

“It's been suggested,” Jessica continued, “that if Laura changed her mind about leaving her husband, Clint would have lost a very lucrative situation.”

“I doubt my sister was going to change her mind, Ms. Ingersoll. She loved Clint and she was going to have his child. There's no way she would have called the wedding off.”

“Since I have a feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of each other, why don't you call me Jessica?” the attorney suggested.

“Fine.” Mariah nodded. “And I'm Mariah. And you're right about us seeing a lot of each other. Because I'm not going away until my sister's murderer is behind bars. And that man is not Clint.”

“Although I hate to delve into family rifts, you really aren't in a position to know how your sister felt about marrying Clint,” Jessica said gently.

“She was married to him once before.”

“That was a very long time ago. For a day. When they were both very young,” Jessica said.

Mariah frowned, thinking how close Clint and Laura had come to having a second chance. The belief that life was not a dress rehearsal, and fear of lost opportunities—such as those suffered by Clint and Laura—was the reason she'd always believed in living every minute to the fullest. It also explained why she'd risked making love to Trace last night.

She shook her head, to clear it of the vaguely distressing thought. “Besides, in any event, even if Laura had called the marriage off, Clint would never kill anyone for money.”

“That's your opinion.”

Mariah met the attorney's eyes with a level look of her own. “Everyone who knows Clint Garvey will tell you the same thing.”