In Harm's Way (5 page)

“No.” She was certain she hadn't. “I saw James the moment I entered. I set down my bag and computer—dropped them, I think—and ran straight to him.”

“Didn't you worry that the one who attacked him might still have been there?” he asked.

She lowered herself to the sofa and leaned back. He sat near her, turned sideways, facing her, intent on her answer.

Robin thought back. “No, that didn't even occur to me. At first I didn't realize what had happened. He was lying there
and I saw the blood. So much of it.” She shuddered. “I thought he had fallen and hit his head.”

“Go on,” he encouraged her. “I know this seems repetitive, but it's very important, Robin. This time I want to hear not only what actually happened, but tell me your feelings. What ran through your mind?”

She nodded. “I cried out his name as I ran over to him, then knelt down and felt for his pulse. I knew, though. I knew he was dead before I touched him. That…that round hole in his…head. That's when I saw the gun lying there on the floor and thought he had shot himself. I reached for it without thinking. Then I put it down, horrified. When I glanced up at the room and noticed the wreck someone had made of it, I thought, Not suicide.”

“And then?”

“On hands and knees I scrambled over to the phone, the one on the end table, and dialed 911. My hands were shaking so I could hardly hold on to it. The woman who answered told me to stay on the line, but I couldn't. I couldn't just sit there so close to James and see him…I felt sick, but knew I couldn't leave. I had to wait for the police. So I got up and ran into the bedroom. That's where I was when they came. They told me to stay where I was. Where you found me.”

“Did you hang up, Robin? Did you replace the receiver on the handset?”

She concentrated, tried to recall the exact sequence of events. “I don't think so…no, I just put it down. I think.” She met his frown. “Wouldn't the police officers know? The ones who came in first?”

He squeezed her arm gently where he'd been resting his hand on it just above her elbow. “Sure, they can tell me. Could you see the door to the living room from where you were sitting, Robin?”

“I didn't look back in there,” she admitted. I covered my face with my hands after I sat down. I just couldn't look.”

“That's okay,” he told her softly. “It's probably best that you didn't.”

“But wait,” she said, grasping his sleeve, hardly aware of what she was doing. “I did look, didn't I? Yes, after you came. Remember when I asked you if they would cover him? I couldn't see the front door. I'm certain I couldn't.”

“I don't want to frighten you more, Robin, but I think someone was still there. The door was closed when the officers arrived.”

“Yes,” she said, wide-eyed with fear of what could have happened to her. “Now I remember! The policemen knocked loudly and identified themselves. I called out for them to come in. Oh, God, the murderer was there, wasn't he? He was still there, hiding, and then left before they arrived!”

He nodded. “Either behind the door or in the coat closet beside it. I think he left as soon as you went into the other room. And he took your computer and suitcase with him. That disk you have, the one James asked you to bring him? I believe that's what he thought he would find.”

She watched as Mitch retrieved her purse and withdrew the plastic case from inside it. He held it up and read the colorful insert. “Classical Interludes?” he said, turning it over in his hand.

“The disk was in a clear sleeve so it wouldn't take up so much room in the safety deposit box. I was afraid it might get damaged in my purse so I placed it in that heavy plastic jewel case to protect it. I keep my CDs for the computer files in a folder so I didn't have any extra cases lying around. I took out a musical one and used that.”

“He had it in a safety deposit box.” Mitch's brows drew to
gether, and his lips firmed. “He must have considered this pretty important. If I'm right, it could be something worth killing for and could give us a clue about who was so hot to have it.”

If what Mitch said was true, that meant James was mixed up in something dangerous and had been even when they'd been together in New York. She simply couldn't imagine that.

She shook her head. “Believe me, James was not the type to take any risks. If you're thinking he was caught up in something that could cost him his life, you're sadly mistaken. Everything he did was so precise and well-thought-out it drove me crazy. He never entertained a spontaneous thought that I know of.”

“I got the impression that he married you on impulse.”

Robin sighed and looked away from his piercing glare. “No, that was strictly
my
impulse. James constructed a dedicated campaign to convince me we should. It took a year before I finally caved. The whim was mine, not his.” She added without thinking, “Even the affairs he had later were deliberately arranged so that I couldn't help but find out.”

“Affairs? More than one?” Mitch asked casually. Too casually for Robin not to realize he considered it crucial. She had just admitted to yet another motive he could use against her, but she had gone too far not to finish the explanation.

“Yes. Apparently marriage proved too confining for him after a while, so he made certain I had excellent reasons to end it. He admitted it to me later and apologized.”

“And you accepted?” he asked in obvious disbelief. “You stayed friends with that—”

“Yes,” she told him firmly, cutting off what was about to be an insult. “You see, it really was at least half my fault that
it didn't work for us. I made him unhappy. In fact, I was relieved it was over between us because we could go back to the way things were before, when he was just my friend. I'm sure he was, too.”

Mitch huffed. “I think he was a damned jerk.”

Robin secretly agreed with him, in a way. But she had understood James better than any other man she'd ever known. He'd been weak and often selfish, but he had also been generous with his affection and praise, which she'd badly needed at the time. She knew the reasons behind his selfishness and her willingness to tolerate it until she had grown strong enough to resent it.

Simply, she and James had used each other to recover, and when that recovery finally took place, the marriage had unofficially ended. They discussed it, understood it and went on from there.

“Better the devil you know,” she muttered, not even realizing she'd spoken aloud until Mitch replied.

“I don't think you knew this devil at all, Robin,” he told her as he reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “And I can almost understand if you
did
shoot him.”

“So you said. But I swear I didn't do it.” Fear riffled through her, chilling her to the marrow. Did he still think she had killed James? She could see accusation of some kind in his eyes. Maybe it was only that he thought her a fool for allowing James to dupe her the way he'd done.

Would Mitch Winton, a man sworn to uphold the law, actually kiss a hand he believed might have wielded a murder weapon? What kind of cop would do such a thing? One hoping she was innocent? Or determined to prove guilty by using any means available?

“You're a dangerous man to know,” she told him.

He released her hand and sat back, smiling a bitter smile. “Yeah, I can be that,” he admitted. “If I find out you're jerking me around, you can count on it.”

M
itch knew the value of intimidation and was in no way opposed to using it when the time was right. So why did it make him feel so rotten playing the big, bad cop with Robin? He knew she hadn't killed James Andrews, but he did sense she was hiding something. Why didn't he feel justified in shaking her up a little?

She broke eye contact and turned away from him. As if coming to a decision, she grabbed the disk and thrust it at him defiantly. “All right. If you must know, I looked at it.”

“So you already know what's on it?” he asked as he took it from her.

At her guilty nod he asked, “So, what did you find? And be honest. I plan to pick it apart when I get to a computer.”

“Well, good luck,” she snapped impatiently. “There were
names of some of his clients, numbers of their insurance accounts and a few pages of notes in a foreign language.”

“Interesting. What language?”

She stilled. “I don't know. You don't believe they're insurance accounts like James said, do you?”

“People aren't usually killed for a client list. What were the numbers like? How many in a sequence?”

Robin shrugged, rubbing her arms with her hands. After thinking for a minute, she shook her head. “I'm not sure. Nine beside each name, I think.”

Could be Social Security numbers. Or numbered bank accounts. Or simply what they appeared to be, insurance account numbers. But there would be time to worry about that later. He stuck the disk in the pocket of his jacket.

“You'd better stay with me tonight.”

She ignored the last suggestion as if he hadn't made it. “You can take me to a hotel. I'll be ready in a second.” She began looking around, bending over to check under the coffee table. “Have you seen my shoes?”

“I took your shoes,” he admitted.

She frowned up at him. “Why?”

“They look splendid with my beige suit. Why do you think, Robin?”

Her mouth dropped open, and she snapped it shut as she straightened and tugged down the hem of her skirt. “I'm sure I haven't a clue.”

“I hope not. Kick would love it if your shoes provide one. There were traces of red dirt found on the carpet at the crime scene. Forensics will be analyzing your soles.”

“All right.” She curled up her toes, looking down at them as if she'd never seen them before. “So what do I do in the meantime?”

“Go barefoot,” he told her. There wasn't much choice. Her
feet weren't exactly tiny, but she would never be able to wear any of his gunboats. Sandra might have left shoes in the closet, but she was a little bitty thing and wore a very small size.

Robin's feet were long and narrow. So graceful, he thought to himself, hardly able to tear his eyes away from them. But he did. It was silly to sit there ogling a woman's feet. He caught her watching him do it, too.

Her luscious lips firmed and he thought she might be about to cry. He couldn't much blame her considering the night she'd had. And her day wasn't promising to be much better. He reached out, took one of her hands and held it, offering what comfort he could without taking her in his arms the way he wanted.

“You won't need shoes to go over to my place. What you need now is food, and I've got supper on already.”

“You cook?” she asked.

Mitch laughed self-consciously. “Yeah. My mama made it very clear when I moved out all those years ago that she wouldn't tolerate my freeloading every meal. She gave me lessons and a set of cookware.”

Robin nodded knowingly. “I certainly can identify with that! My mother didn't want me around, either, after I stopped being the breadwinner.”

“You were the breadwinner?” Mitch frowned.

“Well, I was all she had to work with after Dad left. Mother actually drove herself harder than I did. She managed my modeling career. When I quit, that also put her out of a job, so you can understand how upsetting that would be.”

“No, I don't understand at all,” he argued. “She threw you out?”

Robin got up and paced over to the window. “Not physically, of course. I'm a lot larger than she is. But, yes, she did want me to go, so I went. Found my own apartment. Created
a new life for myself. She left New York a few weeks later and bought a place in Florida.”

“And you visit on her birthday,” Mitch said, watching her reactions closely. “Are you closer now?”

She turned from the window and grimaced. “You're the one who started this business about mothers. Do we need to get this in depth? We both got the boot when we went independent. What's the big deal?”

“No big deal,” he said, forcing a smile, making himself abandon the subject she seemed to find difficult. “So, you gonna try my soup or what?”

She picked up her purse and slung the strap over her shoulder. “Lead on, but I warn you it might be slow going. I'm not used to going barefoot outside, even for a short distance.”

Mitch already had the door open and was waiting for her to exit. “Not a problem. I'm just across the hall.”

She stopped. “What?”

“There,” he told her, inclining his head toward the door facing hers.

“When…when you said next door, I thought…”

He shrugged. “You assumed I meant in the next house, right? I knew you thought that, but I decided it might make you uncomfortable having me just across the hall. Does it?”

She met his gaze and hers looked distinctly wary. “No, I suppose not. No one lives…with you, I take it?”

“Nope. I live alone.”

Robin was still questioning the advisability of staying with him when they reached his kitchen. The room was larger than the space allotted in Sandy's apartment for cooking.

“It smells divine in here,” she commented. She plopped her purse on the counter and lifted the lid to his Crock-Pot for a closer sniff. “What is it?”

“Beef vegetable soup. Old family recipe. Please tell me you eat meat.”

She nodded and trailed her long delicate fingers along the counter as she continued to explore. Mitch pretended to ignore her snooping when she peeked into the pantry.

“Who lives downstairs?” she asked.

“Except for the foyer and parlor, the first floor is mostly gutted right now and waiting for me to remodel,” he told her. “I'm only renting to Sandy to help pay for the materials. Eventually, this will be a one-family dwelling again, the way it was originally intended.” He fished out his large cast-iron skillet and set it on the front burner of the stove. “The kitchen down there will be huge. Lots of counter space and a big island. I'm thinking about a walk-in fridge.”

She made herself comfortable on the stool at the end of the counter. “You're bringing your family here to live with you?”

“Bite your tongue.” He laughed and plopped a small sack of cornmeal down beside the sink. “The Winton crew's pretty big, though. When we all do get together, we need lots of room.”

“They come here often?” she asked, looking truly interested. He supposed she would be. It sounded as if she had very little family of her own. He ran hot water into the cornmeal and stirred it briskly.

“Not so much now, but I hope they'll come over a lot when I get everything finished. That's why I bought this place.”

“Ever been married?” she asked.

He grinned. “No, Miss Nosy.”

“Are you gay?”

“No, I'm just getting the nest ready for Miss Right.”

She looked around the room as if reassessing it. “Yes, I can visualize some lucky woman filling this house with children for you. Happily-ever-afters do occur occasionally, I guess.”

“No, darlin', they don't just
occur,
” he said, dropping a
spoonful of cornmeal mixture into the oil-coated pan and watching it sizzle. “You have to work at them. Leave nothing to chance.”

She traced a pattern on the countertop with one finger. “That's a unique perspective on marriage these days, isn't it?”

He slid the spatula underneath the patties one at a time and turned them carefully so that each one browned evenly. “Maybe, but it's worked for my folks. I expect it will for me.”

When he looked up and pinned her gaze, she was smiling the saddest smile he had ever seen. “You sound dangerously optimistic.”

Mitch slid the corn patties onto a paper towel he'd arranged on a plate. “If you don't expect to be happy and do everything you can to make it happen, you sure as hell won't be.” He picked up one of the corn cakes and held it out to her. “Here, taste this.”

She looked at it warily, then pinched off a tiny piece. Her eyes grew round as she chewed. “That…that's
good!
It's really good!”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, don't sound so all-fired shocked, will you? Mama was a good teacher.”

Robin was the pickiest eater he had ever seen, Mitch decided later as he watched her studiously push aside the chunks of potato and every single butter bean in her bowl. Everything with any starch or carbs, she avoided. No wonder she was so thin. She kept taking pinches of the corn bread as if eating it constituted a serious sin she couldn't resist committing. It tickled him that he could tempt her.

He would love to tempt her in other, much more intimate ways, but knew he'd better keep his libido in check. If he had ever been this drawn to a course of foolish action, he couldn't recall it. She was off-limits and that was that.

When she pushed her plate back and sighed with pleasure,
he couldn't help but stare. Her eyes closed, her head tilted back and her lips stretched into a satisfied smile as she exhaled. God, he almost lost it. She would look just like that when she…

He shook his head to clear it, firmly dismissing the fantasy she roused. What he needed was a cold shower. An icy shower. Problem was, he didn't have a shower in the house. Just a couple of antique tubs large enough for two. Damn, he was going to have to do something to get sex off the brain.

“You want to watch a movie?” he asked, desperate for any kind of distraction. There wasn't much to do that didn't involve going out somewhere. Well, there was
something,
but that was exactly what he was trying to avoid thinking about. “How about
Monty Python
?” Pure unadulterated silliness was what they needed.

She made a face. Mitch thought it was cute. Hell, he suspected the worst she ever looked in her life was cute.

“Okay,
Attack of the Killer Tomatoes,
” he said. “A true classic.”

She laughed and stood up. “Let's see what else you have. Where's your collection?”

He pointed to the living room. “Go ahead and choose something. I'll just stick these dishes in the dishwasher. No, no,” he protested when she began to stack hers. “Just go. I'll do this.”

“My, my, Mom did train you well.” She shook her finger at him playfully. “Count yourself lucky I'm not in the market, or you'd be in serious trouble, my man.”

Then Robin suddenly seemed to realize she'd gotten too familiar. Her sly smile rapidly faltered. She made a wordless little gesture of embarrassment, turned and left the kitchen in a rush.

What a mass of contradictions she was, Mitch thought as he emptied her unfinished food down the disposal. One
minute she was the worldly sophisticate and the next she came off like a kid who hadn't learned the most basic social graces. The real Robin was somewhere between the two extremes, he knew, but apparently she was out of her element here. With him and with the situation she found herself in. She was uncertain how to play it.

He wanted to hold her, to reassure her that he wasn't the enemy. All sexual attraction aside, he wished he could somehow put her at ease and let her know that for him to like her she didn't have to
be
any way but the way she was.

When he finished cleaning up in the kitchen and joined her in the living room, he found her curled in one corner of his over-stuffed sofa watching
Casablanca.
She was clutching a pillow, her long legs tucked to one side. Her bare feet looked pale, cold.

“So you went straight for the chick flick,” he said, sounding grumpy as he raked the fringed plaid throw off the back of a chair and tossed it over her legs and feet. “The only one I own. I should've known. Like all that mushy stuff, huh?” he asked with a weary sigh.

Her smile was timid, her gaze still focused on Bogey as she nodded.

“Okay.” Mitch lounged in the opposite corner of the sofa, already feeling the magnetic pull toward her that was going to devil him for the duration.

She would stay here tonight, for safety's sake, and he would sleep on the sofa so he could keep watch.

First thing in the morning, they would go over to his parents' house and use Susan's computer to pull up the info on the CD. But for tonight he simply wanted to forget all about the case. He wanted to watch Robin watch this movie. And he wanted to pretend neither of them had anything more problematic than whether or not to pop popcorn.

When Bogey finally got to his “Here's lookin' at you, kid,”
thing, Robin wiped a tear off her cheek, sniffed and stuck it out to the bitter end where the hero walked away. They watched the credits roll in silence.

“She's so beautiful, isn't she?” Robin said of Ingrid Bergman.

“She's okay. You ever want to act? You've sure got the looks and the presence for it.”

“Me? Act?” she asked with apparent disbelief.

But Mitch had seen that telltale flicker in her eyes and guessed that she had given it some thought at one time or another.

“I'll bet you'd be great on the big screen. What was it like modeling?” Mitch asked. “Must have been exciting, huh?”

He smiled at her, encouraging her to talk. She had a hesitant, almost self-deprecating way about her he wouldn't have expected someone in her profession to have. Former profession, he reminded himself, though he couldn't imagine she'd quit because she was losing her looks.