The Detective's Dilemma (6 page)

“Are you nervous because we’re alone inside together?” He took a step forward. She didn’t step back—but the flat look she gave him spoke of defiance rather than any interest in him.

“I think I know what you’re implying, Detective, and I am not interested.”

Pity. Seducing a coy woman might be an intriguing fantasy, but the reality of pushing the unwilling was disgusting. He’d seen too much of the resulting pain in his work.

“Fine, I haven’t forgotten I was raised a gentleman.” His tone was mocking.

“Thank you.” Instead of sounding insulted at the implication she’d forgotten she’d been raised a lady, she sounded relieved.

He felt a wash of shame at his own jeering. If she’d only be consistently rude to him, he’d enjoy sneering back at her.

“You’re smiling again,” she said, sounding cross.

“Why does that bother you?”

“You have a knowing smile.”

“That’s the first time today I’ve heard myself described as knowing something.”

“I said it was your smile that was knowing. Not you.”

He laughed. “Good. That’s better.” He walked to a sofa that had horse hair poking out of a rip in its corner and sat. She’d feel better if he stopped looming over her. He smiled up at her. “I’ll sit here while you make the coffee at that little stove, yes? Marvelous little kerosene thing. I have one in my rooms.”

Julianna had the key in her pocket and turned it over and over. She would lock him in here and then leave. That was her plan. But could she leave him alone with nothing to drink?

She went to the cupboard to check the water jug. Empty. Mrs. Calder had left the premises just two days earlier and planned to return in two months.

She’d continue to lie to him, no matter how appealing the detective might be. It would be good practice for her new life. And really, he lied to her, in a manner of speaking. He put on a show.

Only a fool could be warmed by a portrait of a flame. This man was merely painting a picture of amusing lighthearted flirtation and admiration of her.

He desired her. She supposed that could be true. Soon after she married, she learned that men could want a person they didn’t particularly like. Men were so odd, desiring women they barely knew or women they scorned. So many men who had thought her unworthy still seemed to want to embrace her, like that awful second man from the Winthrops.

She shoved the gun into her pocket and walked up and down the room, waiting for him to grow bored of watching her so she could veer off course and race out the door with enough time to lock him in. She eased past the knife in her other pocket to finger the book. It would likely be useless, Brennan had said. She knew him well enough to know he might have been making excuses.

She’d glimpsed the handwriting in the book—James’s tight hand.

Bells clanged in the church a block away. Two p.m. It was Peter’s nap time now. He’d probably sleep in Brennan’s arms—he’d grown a bit large for the perambulator and he’d insist on toddling along until he dropped. She grew mawkish at the thought of her boy, stubborn and tired. God, how she wished she could just go to him and forget the nuisance of the policeman with the beguiling manner.

Soon enough. One more day.

She trusted Brennan to keep Peter safe—more than she trusted herself, to be honest. She’d been so scattered lately, too much to do and think about and care for. Brennan knew how to entertain Peter and remain focused, not allowing the outside world to interfere. And Isabelle was another calm presence. Those two would always help her son. She was blessed by their presence in her life, and she best remember that.

Peter, at least, counted as one thing she needn’t worry over at the moment. The rest—the Winthrops, this man, this situation… She had enough on her plate.

“Are we going to get coffee?” he asked from the chair where he watched her.

“I’d have to go to the pump out in the courtyard.” She picked up a bucket.

He sprang to his feet and strode to her so quickly, she backed away. He took up far too much space and moved with too much energy. He’d changed.

In her house and as they’d walked, he’d been slow moving, almost lethargic—other than the attack on her, and even that had seemed halfhearted. “All right, let’s go,” he said, all cheery heartiness.

He must have figured out her plan. She put the bucket under the sink. “Let’s take a tour of the apartment first.” She had to check to make sure there was no way to escape and he couldn’t somehow make his way across the windowsills to a neighboring building.

She opened the door to the bedroom and looked inside. A pale-rose-and-blue quilt covered the bed.

Lacy curtains covered the windows, which were slightly opened, thank goodness. The place would be an oven without the breeze—not that they’d spend time in this room. He gazed at the bed, then turned that half-smiling gaze to her.

She ignored it. “This is all there is,” she said. “Two rooms.” She tried to close the door, but his hand shot out and grabbed it, stopping her. He walked into the room, circled it, opened each bureau drawer.

He held up one of Mrs. Calder’s chemises and gave it a thorough examination. “The lady who lives here is a much smaller size than you,” he said. “Tiny, but not a child, not with this lace.” He gazed at the chemise and brushed a finger over the gauzy fabric. After folding and replacing the chemise with exaggerated care, he went to the bed and sat. He bounced up and down a couple of times.

She waited for some vulgar comment, which didn’t come. Instead, he rose to his feet and went to the windows. He peered out with such concentration, and then such a broad smirk, she went in to see what he stared at.

Across the way was an open window and two people stood in an embrace.

Oh. My. She did not dare watch those two.

She leaned out the window and looked up and down to make sure the only way he could exit the apartment from this room would be to tumble straight down three flights. Then she whirled away and left the bedroom, leaving him to the show put on by Mrs. Calder’s neighbor.

Now. Leave now.
She would gather some supplies. Though she had money, she didn’t want to spend a cent more than necessary because who knew how she’d get more money once she ran? Time to get some food then abandon the man and the dratted gun.

In the other room, she pulled the gun from her pocket and carefully placed it inside the cupboard next to the empty icebox.

In the apartment across the way, those people had held each other and kissed as if they were locked in some sort of battle, fighting their passion. She rubbed her fingers over her mouth. They’d been far off, across the courtyard, so she wasn’t sure which was the lady and which the man, although they could have both been one or the other. Julianna knew such couples existed. She’d learned a great deal since her days as a debutante.

She imagined a man touching her with that need—a man who looked at her with warm, hungry eyes. Her stomach seemed to lurch with something like an answering hunger.

After a shuddering breath, she rolled her eyes at herself and began rooting through the cupboard to find food. Mrs. Calder hadn’t left many supplies behind—and Julianna would need to take as much as she could find. She found a cloth sack and loaded the shriveled apples and dried cheeses into it.

As she put the sack on the floor, her hand brushed the solid shape of the book in her pocket.

She pulled it out and took a fast glance. Yes. James’s handwriting. Her eyes filled with tears to see it again. The words seemed to fill a sort of journal, a book that he had kept secret from her.

So many secrets, she thought, feeling more bitterness than she had for a long time.

She didn’t hear Walker enter the room, but then came the shush of satin brushing wood. She froze when she heard the distinct click of a gun.

“There are actually bullets.” He sounded aggrieved.

Julianna closed her eyes and moaned. She sat down hard on the sofa.

“Christ almighty. Are you swooning? I’m not going to shoot you.” Now he definitely sounded offended.

“No, I haven’t fainted,” she said. “I suppose I am simply giving up. You’ve won.”

She should have run. At least four times today, she could have escaped his presence and run off to relative safety. She imagined Brennan’s furrowed brow and his far too astute assessment:
You were too intrigued by the detective. You are a mother first and you must never forget to keep yourself safe.
But no, this imaginary Brennan scolded her far more harshly than the real one would. He’d be the last person to berate someone for allowing attraction to override good judgment.

Walker clomped over to her. She opened her eyes to see him looming over her, holding out a hand—an empty hand, no gun pointing down at her. “Come on, up, up.”

She grasped his hand, and he hauled her to her feet so quickly and hard, she stumbled a bit. The gun lay on the sideboard. “Grab it if you want it,” he said. “I have the bullets, so go on and take possession of the weapon.”

“Why did you pull me up?”

He scratched the side of his face and scowled. “You looked all crumpled, like you’d been thrown down, or given up.”

“I have given up, I told you. You’re in control. I shan’t tell you where Peter is—I’m not sure where he is, thank goodness—but otherwise, you decide what will happen.” She tugged her sleeves down and straightened her skirt, hoping he wouldn’t notice the book in her hand. “Shall we go to the police station or wherever you are supposed to report?”

“No. The assignment was to deliver the boy, not you. I was to stop you from kicking up a fuss, but I’m sure that was because of your neighborhood and your family’s reputation.”

“The Winthrops’ reputation.”

“Sure. Anyway, I don’t know exactly where we are, but I doubt anyone around here knows you or would much notice if you protested, even loudly.”

“I have a very piercing scream,” she warned. Her heart began to thump far too fast.

His eyes glittered. “I bet you do. And I bet you would kick like a mule. Good for you.” He smiled at her, and the warmth remained in his face, even though he no longer needed to deceive her. “Listen, I’m not going to drag you in.”

Did she believe him? Yes.

She wobbled with relief as she walked back to the sack of food, and, under the act of grabbing one of the apples from her sack, she managed to hide the book under the rest of the food. She took the apple back to the sofa. “What is your plan?” she asked. “You must have one.” She only hoped it was better than any she’d come up with. She sat and bit into the fruit.

Her stomach still roiled, but her short display of despair and defeat had ended.

He sat next to her, not so close that he crowded her, but not far enough for her to feel comfortable. “I’ll wait until you tell me where your son is.”

That will never happen
, but she didn’t say the words aloud. She nibbled the apple and wished she had a plate, a napkin, and a knife. Much of her training had vanished since James’s death, but she still felt most comfortable eating like a lady. It gave her a connection to her mother, whom she missed every day. She said, “If I miss the meeting with Brennan, he will simply depart, taking Peter with him.”

“You and Brennan…” The detective paused, started again. “I know enough about your background. You wouldn’t treat servants with familiarity. It isn’t done. When did his status change?”

“I beg your pardon, but I have no intention of discussing Brennan with you.” She wished she hadn’t snapped the words. It wouldn’t do to offend him.

“Why not? You’d be smart to try to win me as a collaborator. And since you’re unlikely to use your body and feminine wiles, maybe telling me about your life will do the trick.”

“What might I gain if I did use my wiles?”

He grinned. “Hmm. You’d get my interest.”

“Would it be enough?”

“Give me a kiss or two, and we’ll see.” He shifted so he could gaze into her face, and his expression grew somber. “Or you can talk to me. I’ll listen.”

She had to have a taste for drama, because she wanted him to move closer. She’d press her mouth to his, feel that large body against hers. They wouldn’t take off their clothes, just embrace and explore kisses.

Lord, how she missed kisses. Soft, sweet kisses, and then the deeper ones. James lost his breath toward the end and hated having his mouth covered. Yet for the first years of their marriage, tastes of him could make her dizzy and panting.

Detective Walker’s mouth was full, and she knew his lips would be soft under hers. She made the mistake of raising her gaze to his eyes—he’d seen her staring at his mouth, and he grinned, his gaze sharp with interest.

She looked away to break the tension between them, telling herself her heart beat faster because of fear. Not the sight of his smile or those strong hands resting on his thighs.

“Talk to me,” he said again. “I will listen.”

If he listened to her, he’d have to help. No one who heard the truth about the Winthrops would allow them near a child.

Years ago, she’d promised James she wouldn’t tell anyone the details. He’d been humiliated enough, he’d told her, when she begged him to go to the authorities. She’d reluctantly agreed to keep his secret.
“Even after I die,”
he’d told her when he fell sick.
“Please.”