Flirting With Disaster (8 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

H
E
STILL
SEEMED
slightly out of sorts. She liked that look on him. The big, tall lawman confused by a simple little kiss.

Okay, so it hadn’t been little. Or simple. She’d been turned on before he’d even pressed his mouth to hers. And judging by the lovely size of his cock, he’d been pretty excited, too.

She’d found him attractive before, but now she knew how firm that stomach was and how his hard chest curved up so nicely into his shoulders. She looked him up and down, and her mouth watered.

“Stop it,” he muttered, taking another step back.

God, he really was adorable. “You don’t have to stand here and let me ogle you. Go on. Look around.”

He glanced past her toward the studio doors. “I’d rather you come with me.”

“You’re not seriously scared of my paintings, are you?”

“No, I’m scared of the photographs.”

It took her a moment to recognize the dry humor in his voice. “I’ll protect you. Try to think of them as part of a case file.”

“I want you to come with me because I know your privacy is important to you.”

She drew back a little in surprise that he even cared. “Okay,” she agreed and followed him back to the living room, where he spent a lot of time checking her window locks.

“Living here alone, you might want to invest in some pin locks. They slide into the frame of the window.”

“I’m too isolated to worry much about that. Anyone who wants in can just break the glass. Even Jill wouldn’t hear that.”

He grunted, not looking pleased. “You’ve got a dead bolt on the door, at least.”

“It was here when I moved in.”

“Any weapons?” he asked.

She hesitated long enough for him to stop his inspection of the door and look at her. “Yes. I’ve got a 9 millimeter.”

“Legal?” he asked, clearly wondering if that was why she’d hesitated.

“Yes.” But the Luger wasn’t. Tom didn’t need to know anything about that. Her father had given it to her. She didn’t even have ammunition for it. Still, she assumed it was illegal in more ways than one.

“Well,” he finally said, “don’t shoot any of my people if you see them poking around on girls’ night.”

“Deal.”

His eyes swept over the living room one more time before he moved on to the garage and laundry room and finally the kitchen.

“You don’t have any family?” he asked as he did a quick check of the window above her kitchen sink. She hesitated again. She could feel herself doing it and couldn’t stop it.

“I don’t see any photos,” he added.

“They’re all gone,” she said, and that was true enough. Her father was gone for good, whether he was alive or not.

“No pictures, even though they’re gone? I guess you weren’t close?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Yeah?” he pressed.

“Yeah.”

“So you don’t want to talk about your family.”

She set her jaw, preparing to lie or tell him off for prying or...something. She should never have kissed him. This was not a man whose curiosity could be easily brushed aside. But while she was chastising herself, he became distracted, staring down the double doors to her studio as if he were steeling himself.

“Come on,” she said. “The easel lights are off. It’s not so bad.”

He rolled his eyes as if he hadn’t been watching the doors as if they’d burst open and zombies would come shuffling out. She noticed he waited for her to open them.

“Don’t you have nightmares?” he asked as soon as he stepped in.

“Of course not.” Not because of her work, anyway.

He took a breath and moved quickly past the first few easels to the two-story wall of windows. “This is the weakest point in your security,” he said, testing the lock on the French doors that led out to a small deck. “But at least you have a slide lock here.”

He engaged the lock at the top of the door, pushing it into the frame. “Where does this lead?” he asked, flipping the light switch next to the door. Nothing happened.

“Sorry. It’s burnt out.”

“Could you replace the bulb tomorrow?”

“Sure. There’s a deck out there.”

He pressed his hand to the glass to see past the lights of the room. “Stairs?”

“Yes.”

“If it’s—” Something slammed against the glass. Before Isabelle could even yelp, Tom had shoved her behind his back and drawn his weapon. “Out of the room!”

“It’s just Bear!” she cried.

Tom was backing up and forcing her toward the door. “What?”

“It’s the cat.”

Bear batted at the glass slightly more gently this time. His big paw pressed against the window, the pink pads splaying out on the glass.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tom barked. “That goddamn cat.”

“He just wants in.”

“Well, let him in.”

Isabelle rolled her shoulders, trying to release the tension that had latched in like claws. “He won’t come in here. He doesn’t like this room.”

“I’m not surprised!”

“It’s the smell of the paint, not the carnage. You should see what he can do to a rabbit.”

Bear hit the door harder this time, and Tom jumped even as he put the gun away. “Why is he banging on the glass if he won’t come in?”

“Because he wants me to open the door so he can stare at me while I get exasperated. Haven’t you ever had a cat?”

“I’ve missed out on that joy,” he said drily.

“They have their benefits.”

“Like?”

She smiled. “He’s really warm on a cold night when I’m alone.”

He slanted her a look as he ran a hand over a windowsill. “How often are you alone?”

“Marshal Duncan, that’s a very forward question.”

He sneaked another look over his shoulder. “That was a very forward kiss.”

She couldn’t stop her grin. “I’m not attached to anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“Why?” she asked slyly. “Are you going to kiss me again?”

He looked gratifyingly pained by the question. “I can’t. I need to get back to my assignment. Plus, we barely know each other.”

She realized her laughter was a little impolite, but she couldn’t help it. “And we’re not going to get to know each other. You live on the other side of the state. But we can still kiss.”

He finished checking the windows and turned to her, his mouth flat. “Come on. Cheyenne isn’t that far away. Tell me something about yourself.”

“You know plenty about me already. It’s your turn. Do you have family?”

“Yes. Mom and Dad, and a sister who has a family of her own.”

“Are they all in Wyoming?”

“Yes,” he answered as he led the way out of the room.

“Do you get along with them?”

“We get along fine,” he said, as if that meant anything at all. Before she could press, he asked her a question. “How did you end up here?”

“I came through on a road trip, and I liked it.” Another truth. She was getting almost comfortable with it. “Why aren’t you married?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I travel too much.”

“Oh? So US Marshals don’t get married?”

“Fine. I never met the right woman. I don’t want kids, so that complicates things, or so I’ve been told.” He didn’t look to see if she was following him toward her bedroom.

“Now we’re getting interesting. Why don’t you want kids?”

“Why don’t you? You’re, what...midthirties? Why aren’t you married?”

Ha. She could answer that. “I’m thirty-six. And I’m too mean.”

He stopped and turned toward her. “You’re not mean.”

“Oh, really? Am I nice?”

His head cocked, and he studied her for a moment. “You’re not nice, exactly.”

She laughed so hard she had to press a hand to her stomach to try to control it. “I like your honesty,” she managed to say past her gasps. “You’re pretty cool.”

“Now, that’s something I haven’t heard in a really long time.”

“Then we’re even.”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Tom shook his head. “Shit, I want to kiss you.”

“Do it,” she dared him, her insides already tightening at the idea.

But his gaze slid to her bed, and he shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Afraid I’ll lure you into my bed and steal your virtue?”

“If you can find my virtue, you can have it. And if that’s a euphemism, even better. But what I’m afraid of is having to leave in twenty minutes. Not very memorable. And...” He held up a hand as if reminding himself. “I really shouldn’t get involved when I’m in your house on official business. Now tell me why you’re not married.”

“Tell me why you don’t want kids.”

That shut him up, and Isabelle was free to watch him work for the next five minutes until he left with a warning about locking the door. And with no goodbye kiss.

But that was okay. She could wait. He’d give in before long. And in the meantime, she could fantasize about exactly how it would happen.

* * *

D
AMN
. T
OM
WAS
in deep trouble. He hadn’t meant to kiss her. It would’ve been a bad idea even without the extra complication that he was looking into her on the side. He had Veronica Chandler to protect, and he couldn’t mess around with Isabelle when he was on duty.

More than that was the trouble of Isabelle herself. Tom had been thirty-one before he’d realized he couldn’t trust himself with women. Not because he had a roaming eye or a callous heart or a cruel streak, but because he didn’t. He’d been a sucker for the damsel in distress. The soft girl who couldn’t quite figure life out. He’d been smart enough not to fall for any hard cases, but that had only made it worse. When a girl was hot and helpless and nice, it was really hard to break things off when you finally realized you needed to.

Isabelle wasn’t like that, of course. He’d finally aged out of those immature attractions. Isabelle was capable and tough and smart as hell. But she was still in some sort of trouble. He couldn’t add sex to the mix, especially when he could tell just how good it was going to be. He couldn’t do that when he was still checking into her past.

“Damn it,” he growled as he drove carefully down her snow-packed driveway and eased onto the road.

All he wanted to do was turn around, bang on her door and spend the next few hours in her bed. But he couldn’t.

Despite his misgivings, he might not have had the willpower to make it out of there, but then she’d said she liked his honesty. When the only reason he’d asked her to stay close in her house was so he could probe her about her past.

He should drop it, but he couldn’t. What if she was in danger? Worse yet, what if she was a criminal and he didn’t do his job because he would rather have sex with her?

He shook his head. Dropping it wasn’t an option. He couldn’t ignore his gut at this point. The most he could do was keep his suspicions quiet until he found out the truth.

You didn’t just ignore trouble. He’d learned that the hard way at a young age. Those were the kind of lessons you got when your older brother was a drug addict. When the choice came down to honesty or tricking someone into getting help, you dropped honesty every time.

If Isabelle needed help, she’d never admit it. And if she’d done something wrong, he couldn’t ignore it.

Simple enough, but he felt like biting someone’s head off by the time he got out of the car and stalked toward the judge’s house. He wanted to slam the door open and yell at everyone in sight, but it wasn’t his home, and his people hadn’t done anything wrong.

Mary was waiting for him as soon as he hit the basement stairs. “Did you really approve this night out for Veronica?” she snapped.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Her tone suggested he’d lost his mind, and she was about to help him find it.

“Veronica didn’t have to come here. We can’t keep her prisoner. And it’s not like she wants to go to the state fair. It’s a private residence within shouting distance of our base. It shouldn’t be difficult.”

Mary was about to argue with him. He could see that as clearly as if she’d said it, but eventually she closed her mouth and nodded. “Okay. Fine. Who are you sending over?”

“You.”

“Me?” she screeched.

“I’m going, too.”

“What the hell, Tom? We’ve got twelve additional people here now, and this is a job for a first-year deputy.”

He couldn’t tell her that the real reason was that he wanted to spy on Isabelle. He also couldn’t tell Mary that he wanted her to meet Jill. She’d dig in her heels and tell him to mind his own business. She was always telling him to mind his own business; he never did. “Those guys need all their attention on the courthouse. We know how to pace ourselves. You can sleep in the next day if you need to.”

“I don’t need to sleep in!” she growled before stomping up the stairs. That was the end of the discussion. Good.

They’d debriefed in the meeting room after court had adjourned, but that didn’t mean there weren’t twenty emails waiting for him. So far there’d been no activity at the judge’s place, and Stevenson hadn’t been spotted in Jackson or Boise or anywhere in between.

Tom wrote an update for his chief, laying out his plan to feed only the smallest bits of information to the press so as not to inspire any of the defendant’s sympathizers. Then he sent an email to his team with a few more specifics about tomorrow’s detail, requested an expedited review of the letter from the consulting psychiatrist and was finally ready to turn in at eleven.

But he had something else to look into.

He’d considered taking a long-range photo of Isabelle and feeding it into a reverse image search, but if she’d kept a low profile for the past fourteen years, it probably wouldn’t pan out. No point stepping that far over the line into invading her privacy. He’d also considered that he could’ve lifted some small piece of garbage from her trash to get her fingerprints, but that felt even more wrong. He really wanted to leave a moral pathway open to sleeping with her.

At this point, the best he could do without compromising his own convoluted sense of integrity was to do it the hard way. He knew she was thirty-six and that she was maybe from Cincinnati, but probably from Chicago if his ear was right, and it usually was. If there was news or an event or an arrest, it would be pre-2002. That was it, really. He cracked his knuckles and got to work.