Kill and Tell (15 page)

"I never really knew him," she whispered, feeling compelled to talk. "He'd drift back into our lives every other year or so, and Mom would start hoping this time he would stay, but then he'd leave again, and she would cry for days. I hated him for that."

Those strong, comforting arms tightened, squeezing. "Did
you
want him to stay?"

"At first. Every time he came back, I ran to my room and prayed as hard as I could that he wouldn't leave again, and that Mom would be happy and not cry anymore. That never worked for long. Then I started making wishes. I wished on falling stars, on wishbones, I tossed pennies into any pool of water I could find. I didn't know any officially designated wishing wells, but I figured any water would do." He chuckled again, and she found herself somehow smiling into his coat. The smile was wavery, but it was there. He rocked her back and forth a little, as if she were a child. "Feeling better?" She nodded. "Crying causes endorphins to be released into the body, automatically lifting the mood."

"Then you must be slap full of endorphins right now," he teased, and this time she laughed. It shocked her, and she went still. How could she laugh? She was standing by her father's grave.

"Don't worry about it," he said, shaking her a little, understanding without being told why she had gone rigid in his arms. "People always laugh at funerals, sometimes even the families. My grandmother always said it was the angels' way of easing the burden. It isn't disrespectful, it's healing." He was right. She thought back to other funerals she had attended, the bouts of muffled laughter, and she relaxed again. "When I was about eleven, we went back to West Virginia for my grandfather's funeral—my father's father. I remember Granny sitting in a rocker, holding this little lace handkerchief, reminiscing about Gramps with some of the older people. They all started laughing at some tale, trying to hold it back at first, but then Granny started actually
whooping
, rocking back and forth, holding her stomach and laughing 'til she could barely breathe. They all laughed like maniacs."

"It helps to remember the good times. So, you're really a West Virginia girl? I thought I heard a drawl sneak into that Ohio accent a few times." He imitated her accent, saying "Oh-Hi-uh," instead of

"Oh-Hi-oh" the way Southerners did. As he spoke, he subtly released himself from her clutches, though not her from his. Moving to her side, he started her walking by the simple means of walking himself, holding her close with an arm around her waist. She had to walk or be dragged. Karen hadn't wanted to show her face yet. She knew her eyes were swollen, her nose red, her makeup ruined. She only hoped she had been able to blot up the worst of the destruction. But Detective Chastain had decided it was time for her to leave, so, willy-nilly, she was leaving. Perhaps he had work to do and had to get back to New Orleans. She felt guilty about the way she had monopolized his time.

"Am I keeping you from something?" she asked, embarrassed all over again. He had offered his help, but perhaps it had only been a courtesy offer and he hadn't really expected her to accept.

"Of course not." He squeezed her a little as they reached the graveled little path that led to the car. "I'm
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off duty, and I don't have any appointments."

"Or a date?" she asked, disliking even the idea. She was surprised at herself. Had she suddenly become so needy that she couldn't bear losing his support? She had better snap out of it fast, because she was flying home the next morning.

"No date," he said easily. "Why don't we walk around the Quarter for a while, then have dinner? You haven't seen anything of New Orleans, really, and you need to relax." Her sudden tension seeped out of her. He wanted to spend the rest of the day and the evening with her. Well, perhaps he didn't really
want
to, perhaps he merely felt responsible for her, but she was too grateful for the chance to avoid a long evening spent alone with only her melancholy thoughts for company that she felt a flood of relief at the invitation. "Thanks. I'd like that." The afternoon sun suddenly blazed full on her face, the rain clouds gone for now, though ominous dark clouds were building again in the southwest. The heat and brightness of the sun were incredible, and she felt herself beginning to sweat again, as rapidly as she had grown chilled before. Squinting her swollen eyes against the glare, she misjudged her distance from the edge of the path and brushed against a shrub. The stubby branches snagged her hose and held fast.

"Darn it!" She stopped, looking down to assess the damage. The nylon was tangled on one of the branches. A hole the size of a half-dollar had been torn in the fabric, and an ugly run laddered both upward and downward from the hole. A run in black hose was particularly ugly, she thought, looking down at her pale leg peeking through.

She started to lean down and release herself, but he squatted beside her and curved one hand around her calf, using the other to work the nylon free. A small red scratch from the branch marred her skin, shining brightly through the gaping hole in her panty hose. He rubbed his thumb over the scratch, soothing the sting.

"You can take them off at the car," he said, rising, his task accomplished. He smiled down at her with those brilliant gray eyes. "I'll stand on the other side and not look, I promise." The prospect of taking off her panty hose in his presence, even when he was on the other side of the car, seemed almost too daring and intimate.
Intimate
. There was that word again. All day—well, actually since the first day—it seemed as if he had wrapped her in a blanket of intimacy without actually doing anything sexual. He had touched her constantly; he put his hand on her arm or her back, held her, supported her, and perhaps she couldn't have made it through the ordeal without those touches that let her know she wasn't alone.

Perhaps the sense of intimacy was all on her part; perhaps Southern men were normally this solicitous toward women. She hadn't known any Southerners before, since they didn't exactly flock to Columbus, Ohio, so she had no means of comparison. If Detective Marc Chastain was typical of the Southern male, she thought, then the women in the rest of the country didn't know what they were missing. They reached the car, and Marc went to the driver's side and turned his back, just as he had promised. The brutal sun beat down on their heads, and he shrugged out of his jacket, holding it in one hand while he waited.

His black hair was rain-wet and gleamed in the sun. His white shirt was thin, letting the warmth of his skin show through the fabric as it draped across his broad shoulders. Karen looked across the car at
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him, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. For a moment, she stood paralyzed, unable to look away from him. Every detail was suddenly overwhelming in its clarity: the size of him, the set of his head on his shoulders, the neatness of his ears, the black hair that tapered to a point on the back of his neck. That big pistol was still clipped to his belt, and she wondered if he ever went anywhere without it. She had never before been so acutely, physically aware of a man as she was in that moment, almost breathless from the impact on her senses.

"May I turn around now?" he asked lazily, and the moment passed.

"Not yet," she said. He settled against the side of the car, still patient. Karen looked down at her leg. The torn nylon sagged, looking much worse than bare legs would. Vanity, if nothing else, inclined her to do as he said. Faintly amused, at both him and herself, she lifted her skirt and hurriedly peeled off the ruined panty hose, then wadded the nylon into a ball and stuffed it in her purse.

To her surprise, she instantly felt better. As hot and muggy as the air was, she was immeasurably more comfortable without the hot nylon wrapping her from waist to toe.

Almost as soon as she straightened, he was around the car, opening the door for her. There was that touch again, this time on her back, gently guiding her into the car. From out of nowhere surged a longing to be in his arms again, comforted and protected, to be able to rest her head on his shoulder. Such weakness was so alien to her that Karen automatically straightened her shoulders, mentally recoiling. Yes, she had been under a lot of stress, and while maybe it was okay to lean on that strong shoulder for a little while, she wouldn't allow herself to make a habit of it.

As he slid behind the wheel, he gave her his habitual half-smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and just barely curled his lips, the one that made him look sleepy and… something else; she wasn't certain just what.

"On second thought, it looks like it's going to rain again, so walking in the Quarter is out," he said. "We'll go to my house. We can sit on the balcony, drink a glass of wine, people-watch. You don't need to mope around a hotel room all by yourself."

An afternoon walk and dinner were one thing, but going to his house was quite another. "I've imposed enough—" she began.

"Don't argue."

"It's your day off, and I—"

"I said don't argue."

The easiness of his tone kept her from taking umbrage but didn't blind her to his determination. He had decided she was going to his house, so go she would.

It was because he was a cop, she thought, letting her head drop back against the seat. When he gave an order, he expected it to be obeyed. Doctors were like that, too. A nurse didn't have to agree with the order, as long as she carried it out. But that was her job, and this wasn't. Nor was it police business. She could tell him no. The problem was, she didn't want to. She wanted to sit on his balcony and sip a glass
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of wine; it seemed so Southern, so
New Orleans
. She wanted to amuse herself with a little people-watching. She definitely didn't want to face that empty hotel room right now. They didn't talk much during the half-hour drive back to the city. She felt limp, oddly detached, almost dreamy. She recognized it as the aftermath of her emotional storm and relief that the funeral was over, as if she had accomplished some herculean task and now could rest. The sense of drifting was pleasant. She didn't realize he lived in the Quarter until he turned onto St. Louis. Until then, she had just thought he was taking a shortcut through the Quarter, though when she looked at it logically, she knew that was ridiculous. Why wind his way through the narrow, crowded streets of the Quarter to get anywhere except
in
the Quarter? He slowed and punched the button on his garage door opener, and a wide blue door began sliding upward. He wheeled the car into the opening when there was barely enough room for it to fit under, making her gasp and duck her head.

He chuckled. "Sorry. When you pull in here enough times, you learn how to judge it down to the inch." He cut off the car engine, got out, and walked around to her side of the car. Karen felt awkward just sitting there and making no attempt to open the car door herself, but she waited anyway. It took only a few seconds, and he seemed to expect to perform the courtesy. He opened the door, and she got out. He put his hand on her back again, a warm, light pressure that guided her toward a flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs, he unlocked a wooden door and opened it outward, ushering her through. She stepped out onto a wide balcony that overlooked a luxurious courtyard. An old stone fountain occupied the middle, serving as a focal point around which plants of all kinds flourished. Enormous ferns and tall palms waved their lacy fronds; roses and geraniums and other flowers she couldn't name filled the air with perfume. She was certain she caught the scent of jasmine, though she didn't see any of the little starry white flowers. Enchanted, she stepped forward and rested her hands on the wrought-iron railing. This was wonderful. She looked down at a stone bench almost hidden among the foliage and wondered if he used the garden to escape from the stresses of his job.

"It's beautiful." She drew the delicious scent deep into her lungs.

"Thanks. One of the tenants keeps the place looking like a greenhouse, and I give her a break on the rent. The courtyard's nice, but I don't have time to take care of the plants. It would be just rock and dirt down there if it wasn't for Mrs. Fox."

"Then bless Mrs. Fox," she said, reluctant to leave the small paradise.

"Amen." He unlocked a door as he spoke, opening it inward and holding out his hand to her. She left the railing and walked inside, and felt as if she had also left the twentieth century behind. This house was from a different era, a different world. The plastered ceilings were at least twelve feet high, and the furniture was antique, but it was the kind of antique that was used every day, not put behind glass. The faded rug beneath her feet was still thick and luxurious, marvelously cushiony. The only modern note was a big easy chair, large enough to accommodate his height.

She started to ask how he could afford a place like this on a cop's salary, but the question was too rude, and she bit it back.

"I inherited the house from my grandmother," he said, watching her look around. "The attic is full of pieces of furniture that are two hundred years old. The fabric rots, of course, but I take care of the wood and every so often have a piece reupholstered."

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"It must be wonderful, living in a place like this."

"I grew up here, so sometimes I take it for granted, but yeah, it's great." He held out his hand again, beckoning her forward. "This way." He led her through a small dining room and into the kitchen, then through double French doors leading out onto another balcony, this one overlooking the street. "Have a seat," he invited. "I'll get us something to drink. Are you hungry?"

"No, I—"

"I bet you didn't eat lunch," he said, his eyes narrowing. "Did you?"

"No," she admitted.