Читать книгу The Marshal - Adrienne Giordano - Страница 12
ОглавлениеBrent shoved his key in the lock on the front door, stared down at the weathered handle and held his breath. Beside him, Jenna moved, ratcheting up his already spring-loaded tension. Straightening his shoulders, he released the breath he’d been holding.
“Are you okay?” Jenna asked, her voice mixing with the whistling wind.
With all the open space out here, he’d grown immune to the wind noise. Except tonight. Tonight that wind could have been a brass band in his head. Why tonight should be any different from the thousands of other times he’d stepped into this house, he wasn’t clear on, but it definitely had something to do with Jenna-the-investigator, a near stranger wearing that red blouse with the extra unfastened button still taunting him, entering his space. The place where his life had been decimated.
“Brent?”
One, two, three. Go.
He turned the lock and shoved open the door. “I’m good. Just thinking.” Flipping the inside light switch, he stepped over the threshold. “Come in.”
When Jenna stepped in, he closed the door, shut out that damned wind and pointed to the living room floor. “Crime scene.”
Jenna glanced around, taking in the sofa and the end tables all covered with sheets. Her gaze traveled to the front windows and the dusty drapes. Last time he’d been here, he’d forgotten to close them. Not a huge deal since his aunt and uncle watched over the place. Even if someone wanted to break in, what would they get? Thirty-year-old furniture. That’s all. Everything else had been tossed or cleared out, all their childhood memories and valuables split between Brent and Camille.
All that was left here was the place his mother had died.
“Wow,” Jenna finally said.
“Yeah.”
“This is the original furniture?”
“Yes. The floor, too.” He gestured to the hardwood. “It’s never been refinished. In case you were wondering.”
“I was. Thank you.”
“Everything is relatively the same.”
She took a step, and then halted before turning back to him. “May I?”
“Can’t investigate standing here.”
She walked around the furniture, peeled back a corner of a sheet to inspect the sofa then backed up to study the floor. After a minute, she squatted and ran her hand over the area where he’d found his mother beaten and bloody. Suddenly, the way Jenna’s black slacks stretched over her rear seemed a whole lot better to think about.
Yeah, think about the beautiful woman instead. For once, he’d let his baser needs take the lead.
“Your bedroom is down this hallway?”
At that, he blurted a laugh. What timing.
“What’s funny?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Yes, bedroom is down the hall.”
She inched closer to the sofa and his palms tingled, the flicking shooting straight up his arms into his chest.
“Right there,” he said.
Jenna stopped and looked back at him. Her eyes, her body, the way she moved, all of it left him...affected.
“What?” she asked.
“One step to your right. That’s where she was when I came down the hallway.”
Without moving, she stared at the floor, studying the details—the grain of the wood, the seams where blood had seeped, the scuff marks—he’d spent years obsessing over.
Outside, a car door slammed. Sheriff Barnes arriving. Brent turned away from Jenna to open the door. The cruiser was parked behind his SUV. Brent held up a hand. “Hey, Sheriff.”
Barnes, in the drab beige uniform the Carlisle Sheriff’s Department had used since Brent could remember, strode to the porch, hat in place, bat belt—otherwise known as his gun belt—snug on his hips. Over the years, Barnes had filled out, but at nearly fifty-eight, he could still chase down perps.
He shook Brent’s hand. “Brent, good to see you.”
Not really, but what else was the guy supposed to say? “Thanks for coming, Sheriff. Come in.”
Barnes stepped into the house, spotted the gorgeous brunette in the killer blouse and did a double take. Right there with ya. Every damned time Brent looked at her he had that same feeling. A little helpless, a little stunned and a whole lot horny.
Jenna glanced up, smiled and strutted toward them. Brent cleared his throat. “Sheriff Barnes, this is Jenna Hayward, the investigator I was telling you about.”
Barnes shot him a look, and then shook his head. “But damn, if I had an investigator that looked like her, my crime rate would skyrocket. Everyone would want to be investigated.”
In Brent’s office, if he’d made a comment like that, his superiors would have sent him to sensitivity training. Out here in Carlisle? No one much cared because they knew Barnes was a good, honest man who’d sooner sever his own hand than use it to touch a woman other than his wife. Unsure how Jenna would feel about the remark, he turned to her, offered an apologetic nod.
“Now, Sheriff,” Jenna said, “you’d better watch yourself. I tend to get bored easily and may come looking for a job.”
Barnes shook Jenna’s extended hand, locked eyes with her, and the way she smiled, all crooked and come-get-me, once again reminded Brent how she used her looks to play men.
Particularly ones foolish enough to get played.
Finally, the sheriff got a hold of himself, straightened up and turned to Brent. “I have the copies you wanted in the car.”
“Thank you.” Brent swirled his finger. “I was about to review the scene with Jenna.”
“Want me to do that?”
Not a bad idea, but he wanted to give his version of what he knew from that night. “I’ll handle the first part and you can summarize the investigation. That work?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“Sheriff,” Jenna said, “I appreciate you letting me look at your files. A lot of people wouldn’t.”
Barnes shifted his hat between his hands. “I was a deputy back then and this was my first murder case.”
His gaze went to the floor, the spot where Brent’s mother had died, and the damned flicking stabbed up Brent’s arms again. Anymore, he couldn’t be in this house without the failure tearing at him. He inched his shoulders back and focused on Jenna.
“Anyway,” Barnes said, “this case has stayed with me. I’ve got patience, but I need someone with imagination who can see more than I’m seeing. All I know is I want it solved.”
Didn’t they all.
Brent gestured down the hallway to his childhood bedroom where the hell began. “Let’s start there.”
* * *
JENNA FOLLOWED BRENT down the corridor, tracking his footsteps on the threadbare rug as he demonstrated the path that led him to discovering his mother’s body. She glanced up at the peeling wallpaper—white with roses—and wondered how long it had been there.
“I looked out the door, but didn’t see anything,” Brent said. “My parents’ bedroom door was closed, so I went to the living room, where the television was still on.”
Something in his tone, the flatness, the lack of emotion, the detachment, again struck Jenna as odd. This was his mother and he was reciting these facts as if reading from a script.
“The house was quiet,” he continued. “I figured my mom had fallen asleep on the couch. She did that sometimes.”
Jenna jotted notes as she walked. At least until Brent stopped short and—smash!—she collided with him. Her chin bounced off his back, her pad fell to the floor and her pen...well...that sucker plunged into him. She gasped, dropped it and instinctively rubbed the wounded spot. A spot that happened to be on Brent Thompson’s extremely tight backside.
The shock of her hand in a place it seriously shouldn’t have been must have registered because he spun toward her.
Holy cow! She’d just groped a US marshal.
And liked it.
What a nightmare. She smacked her hand against her chest. Bad, hand, bad. A horrified giggle blurted out. And it gets worse.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m going to beg you to believe that was a completely—completely—unintentional thing. It was a reaction. If I’d hit your arm, I’d have grabbed it. I swear to you. Total accident.”
Defuse it. Yes. That’s what she’d do. Before they both started stuttering. She leaned forward, went on tiptoe and, keeping her voice low, she added, “But seriously, your backside is a work of art. Pure heaven.”
At that, Brent’s lips spread slowly, like melting butter inching across his face, and Jenna’s brain seized. The man had a smile—one he didn’t show too often—that could spark a fire in a saturated forest.
“Heaven, huh?”
“Pure. I am sorry, though. Really.”
Not really.
“You don’t look sorry.”
But the sinful grin told her he was enjoying the game as much as she was. Sure, she liked flirting. Did it often and with purpose. But with Brent, it was just plain fun. They both knew the spark was there. They’d just chosen not to do anything with it.
At least until she’d groped him and decided they definitely needed to do something with it.
The sheriff stepped into view at the end of the hallway. “It got quiet. You two okay?”
Brent’s gaze traveled to the open buttons on her blouse and back up, giving her a heavy dose of eye contact. “Are we okay?”
“We are A-okay, Sheriff. Just having a little powwow here.”
“Powwow,” Brent said. “Is that what it’s called?”
“It is now, big boy.”
A squeak from the back of the house sounded and Brent winced, the move so small she’d almost missed it. In the second it took him to realize she’d witnessed his unguarded response, he threw his shoulders back and jerked a thumb toward the end of the hallway.
“Someone’s at the back door. Probably my uncle. Let me check this.”
Turning from her, he strode to the end of the hall, hung a right and headed to the kitchen.
If it was his uncle, she’d get an opportunity to put a face to a name. As she always did, she’d lay on the Miss Illinois-Runner-Up charm and let him get comfortable with her before interviewing him. She may have been rejected by the FBI, but they were clueless at how adept she was at handling men. Her four brothers could attest to that.
Regardless, everyone here the night of the murder needed to be interviewed. Any one of them could hold one small detail they deemed irrelevant, but might actually be important. Anything was possible.
Even twenty-three years later.
“Hey,” Brent said. “Figured it was you.”
“We just came from dinner.” Male voice. A little gravelly. Older. “I saw your car outside. You didn’t call.”
Jenna and the sheriff stood in the living room giving Brent privacy with his uncle. At least she guessed it was his uncle.
“The day got away from me,” Brent said. “Come into the living room. I want you to meet someone.”
“Really?” The gravelly voice raised with that recognizable tone every unmarried, twenty-eight-year-old woman knew and sometimes, in her case, despised.
Did Brent’s uncle think he was bringing a love interest home to meet his family? And what? Showing his girlfriend the place where his mother was murdered?
Twisted.
But, well, she’d seen plenty of twisted in this line of work. Simply put, people were weird. Brent just didn’t strike her as one of the weird ones.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Brent said.
“You’re not getting any younger.”
Finally, Brent laughed. “As you keep telling me.”
He stepped into the room, his uncle on his heels. Given Brent’s size it was no shocker that his uncle stood a good six inches shorter. He wore tattered jeans with an untucked flannel shirt over a T-shirt. His scuffed work boots clunked against the hardwood as he came into the room. Under the brim of his baseball cap, one which Jenna’s mother would ask him to remove in the house, his gaze shot to Jenna and then to the sheriff.
He nodded. “Sheriff, everything all right?”
“Just fine, Herb. Brent asked me to meet him here.”
“Uncle Herb, this is Jenna Hayward.”
Herb removed his cap, came toward her and shook her hand. “Hello.”
“Jenna is a private investigator.”
That got his attention. He looked at Brent, and then swung back to Jenna.
“No fooling?”
“No fooling,” she said. “I work for a law firm.”
Brent waggled a hand. “Remember the lawyer from last spring?”
“The mouthy blonde?”
“Seriously,” Brent said, “you did not just say that.”
Oh, he sure had and Jenna couldn’t help smiling at the spot-on description of her boss. “That’s her. She’s one of my bosses.”
Brent glanced at her. “Sorry. They were asking me about Penny and I was trying to describe her. I didn’t mean it the way it sounds.” He went back to his uncle. “Jenna is helping on Mom’s case. The sheriff came by with files.”
“Good to hear. I’m glad you’ll get some help on this.” Brent’s uncle addressed Jenna. “We need to get her justice. She was a good girl.”
His uncle gripped Brent’s arm, clearly a gesture of affection and support, and something kicked against Jenna’s ribs. Brent’s father may have abandoned his family, but his uncle sure hadn’t. These poor people. All these years they’d been struggling with loss and heartbreak and injustice. “Brent, do you mind if I talk with your uncle a bit?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
But Brent didn’t move.
“Alone?”
For a moment, he continued to stand there and then he blinked. There we go. Slowly, it all registered. “Gotcha. I’ll walk outside with the sheriff. Get those files for you.”
“And, hey,” his uncle said, “head over and see your aunt. She misses you. Jamie is there. Catch her before she goes home.”
Jamie. Brent’s cousin. He’d mentioned her on the ride over.
On his way out, Brent waved in that yeah-yeah-yeah way people used when being nagged. The front door closed and Jenna moved next to Herb. He focused on her face, which she’d give him bonus points for. “Thanks again for helping,” Brent’s uncle said.
“No need to thank me. Brent is a good guy. I had no idea about his mom. It’s...well...tragic.”
“It is. But Brent, he turned out to be a damned fine man. Taking care of his sister the way he did. A lot of boys would run from that. Not him. He latches on.”
He sure did. “So it seems. May I ask you some questions regarding the night his mom died?”
“Whatever you need. But the sheriff has it all in his notes.”
Of course he did, but hearing it and reading it were necessities. “Yes, but since we’re here, I was hoping you could walk me through what went on when you got here.”
He took in the room, studying the now-uncovered furniture. His gaze landed on the floor in front of the sofa. Slowly, he ran his hand over his face, a gesture so similar to the one she’d seen Brent use it sent a chill up her arms. Like father like son, only this wasn’t the father and Brent wasn’t the son.
Finally, he looked back at Jenna. “She was a mess. Poor thing. I found her right here. Right where I’m standing.”
The exact spot Brent had indicated. “When did you first see Brent?”
“He came to the house, ran inside—we never locked the doors back then—screaming and crying. Scared the hell out of me.” He shook his head. “Long as I live, I’ll never get the sound of that boy’s screams out of my system.”
It was hard to picture. Strong, solid Brent at five, terrified and begging for help. She hated the thought. Hated the idea that he’d dealt with that trauma. “What time was this?”
“Just after midnight. Maybe 12:10.”
After checking her notes and confirming the time with what Brent told her, she pointed at the front door. “You came in this way?”
“Yes, ma’am. Usually we come in the back. Cheryl always kept that door unlocked. That night, Brent must have run out the front door because it was open when I got here.”
“Brent was with you?”
That might have been a trick question—no might about it—because she knew where Brent had been. He’d told her. Still, it never hurt to let the witness give his own assessment.
“No. He was back at the house. Poor kid was howling something about his mom and blood. My wife called 9-1-1 and I came back to check on Cheryl and get the baby—Brent’s sister. We always call her the baby.”
Staying focused on the scene, Jenna moved to the entryway. “So you’re on the porch and the door is open.”
“Yeah.” He walked over and opened the door, letting a burst of cool air in as he pushed it back against the wall. “It was like this when I came in.”
Jenna faced the living room, accessing the layout—sofa blocking her view of where the body would have been, the end table and side chair that could have hindered the murderer—all of it part of an investigation that had gone nowhere in twenty-three years.
Herb walked back to the sofa and pointed. “She was right there. Kind of curled up, but not really. Her hair was all bloody.”
Head wounds bled more than others due to all the blood vessels. Jenna had learned that from her dad.
She drew a map of the room, marking an X where the body had been found. “Were these chairs here back then?”
“Yes. They may have moved them when they were living here, but Brent put everything back when he started working on the case.”
“Then what happened?”
Herb scratched his cheek and then gestured to the floor. “I leaned over her, checked her pulse. I couldn’t find one, but I’m no doctor. By then, Barnes—he was a deputy then—had pulled in. I ran back to get Camille before she woke up.”
More notes. He’d left the body so he could get Camille. Parental instinct would be to protect the child. Made sense. “The sheriff arrived and you went back to your house with Camille? Did she see the body?”
“No. I covered her eyes when I carried her out. I took her next door and came back. My wife was trying to get hold of Mason.”
“Brent’s father?”
“Yes, ma’am. She wanted to warn him, but we didn’t have cell phones back then, and he’d already left work. I waited for him to pull up while the paramedics were in here with Cheryl.” He flipped his palms up, and then let them drop. “Helluva night, that one.”
The heaviness in his voice, weight saddling his vocal chords, drew her gaze. For her, this was a job. For them, she couldn’t imagine. “Do you need a break?”
“Maybe I do.” He started for the door, but then stopped and gestured to the floor. “All these years I’ve been thinking about what my nephew saw. I don’t know how a boy recovers from that.”
Jenna’s guess was the boy in question hadn’t recovered. All he’d done was bury the pain deep enough that it would allow him to go forward, to keep searching, to get justice.
Only problem was, all the anger he’d stuffed inside him would eventually go boom. And that would cause an emotional landslide.
Obviously wanting to be done, Herb turned toward the still open door. “Do you need anything else?”
“Not right now. I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“It’s all right. I want to help. If we solve this, it’ll give Brent and Camille peace. Maybe then he’ll sell this damned house.”
“It must be hard living right next door.”
He shrugged. “If someone lived here, gave the house some life, it wouldn’t be so bad. Now it’s just an empty place where my sister-in-law died. It’s a damned morgue.”
* * *
OUTSIDE, THE GARAGE spotlight illuminated the driveway, and Brent spotted his aunt Sylvie marching across the patch of grass separating the two homes. She made a direct line for him, her face, as usual, passive. No pinched brows, no big smile, no tight cheeks. Nothing to indicate her mood. He’d always said she’d make a great spy. Bringing up the rear was his cousin, Jamie, who wore that slightly amused grin that meant she wasn’t the only one in trouble.
He shifted his gaze back to his aunt and—yep—all that passive behavior meant one thing, she was about to yell at him for staying away so long.
Might as well take it like a man.
While the sheriff unloaded the copies of evidence files, Brent walked across the driveway, the heels of his dress shoes clapping against the pavement and the lack of traffic noise reminded him that he wasn’t in Chicago anymore. Coming back here, with all the contrasts to the city, brought back all that bubbling agony he fought to control. And he didn’t want that. He wanted it buried where he didn’t have to deal with it. What he needed was to stay strong—for Camille, for his aunt and for his uncle.
They could turn into basket cases if they chose, but not him. His day would come, though. When they found his mother’s killer, then he’d figure out how to deal with all the garbage he’d packed inside him.
“Hey, Aunt Sylvie.” He held out his arms and his much smaller aunt stepped into them.
“Don’t Hey-Aunt-Sylvie me, young man. You know you’re in trouble. You didn’t even call to tell us.”
She backed away from the hug and stared up at him. Since his mother had died, his aunt had turned her fanatical focus on him and Camille. Whether it was her own grief or simply wanting to make sure they had a mother figure in their lives—maybe both—was still up for debate, but Brent never questioned it. Aunt Sylvie always made sure they were cared for and had hot food in their bellies.
For that reason alone, he always answered when she called. No matter what.
Even when she griped at him.
“I know. I’m sorry. I got caught up at work and didn’t get a chance to call.”
Jamie stepped around her mother, went on tiptoes and smacked a kiss on Brent’s cheek. “Hey, cuz. Good to see you.”
“Hi, James.”
He’d started calling his cousin James when they were kids and the nickname had stuck. She never seemed to mind.
Obviously done ranting, Aunt Sylvie waved at Barnes, who’d finished digging a file box from his car and had set it on the trunk. “Sheriff, how are you?”
“I’m good, Sylvie. You all right?”
“Oh, we’re just fine.” She shot Brent the stink-eye. “Wouldn’t mind seeing my niece and nephew a little more.”
Guilt, Brent had enough of. Hell, he had enough guilt to fill the Chicago River. “You know how to drive. And Chicago is only an hour.”
As usual, her mouth dropped open and she gasped. “Look at you with that smart mouth.”
“Merely an observation.”
Jamie cleared her throat. “What’s in the box, Sheriff?”
The sheriff glanced at Brent, unsure how much to reveal, so Brent took that one. “That’s for me. Copies of Mom’s files.”
With that bright spotlight shining down on her, Aunt Sylvie whipped her gaze between Brent and the sheriff. Brent knew right where her mind had gone. “Has something happened? A lead?”
Dang. He’d been insensitive. He knew her. Knew how her mind worked and the slow-curling panic that fired every time the sheriff pulled into one of these driveways.
And Brent hadn’t warned her.
Gave her zero notice about Jenna investigating. Moron.
Brent touched her arm. “No. But there’s someone I’ll introduce you to in a minute. She’s inside talking with Uncle Herb. I think she can help us.”
“Who is she?”
“An investigator. Remember the lawyer I helped last spring?”
“That adorable little blonde?”
Adorable. Penny would hate that. She’d like Uncle Herb’s description better. “Yes. The investigator works for her law firm. They offered to help with Mom’s case.”
Aunt Sylvie cocked her head. “She’s good, this investigator?”
“She is.”
And she’s got a body that drives me insane. Not that he’d say that, but he was a man, and men had needs. Needs that Brent had been sorely neglecting lately. Needs that maybe Jenna could help him with.
When they were done finding a killer.
Because as much as Brent fantasized about a long night with Jenna in his bed, his priority was catching his mother’s killer. If he and Jenna got involved, something told him it would get ugly when he walked away. And walk away, he would. He liked coming and going as he pleased and not having to explain himself to anyone. He didn’t see that changing anytime soon.
The snick of the front-door latch sounded and they all turned toward the house. Jenna came down the porch steps.
She walked toward them, her coat flying open to reveal her blouse and the slacks that fit her curvy body in all the right ways.
“Wow,” Jamie said. “She’s pretty.”
Aunt Sylvie gave him a bored look. “This is your investigator?”
Brent grinned. “Yep!”
“Which body part made this decision?” she whispered.
“Well, look at you with that smart mouth,” he said in his best Sylvie voice.
Without giving her an opportunity to respond, he waved Jenna over. “Come meet my aunt and cousin.”
After doing the introductions, Brent turned to Aunt Sylvie. “Jenna will be poking around. Don’t freak when you see a car in the driveway.”
“Yes,” Jenna said. “I’d like to chat with both of you, at your convenience, of course.”
Aunt Sylvie pressed her lips together, and then shot a look at Uncle Herb who nodded. She didn’t like talking about her sister. Ever. Growing up, Brent had craved stories about his mom, but the memories were too painful for his aunt and she typically ran from the room sobbing. Over the years, Brent had been conditioned not to talk about his mother. Which pretty much stunk.
“Of course,” his aunt said. “If it’ll help. I’m available anytime.”
“Thank you. I’d like to read through the sheriff’s files first. Would it be all right if I call you in a day or two?” She looked at Jamie. “Both of you?”
“Sure,” Jamie said. “Anytime.”
“Thank you.”
“Well, have you eaten?” his aunt asked Brent. “I could fix you something.”
A meal would serve him good right now, but the night had dragged on and, as hopeful as he was about the new energy Jenna brought, talking about his mother, reliving that night, had drained him. Time to get back to Chicago, where the sounds of the city would drown the noise in his head. Silence, he’d learned long ago, was his enemy. During high school and college, football helped smother it. With football, the energy it took to step to the line and get his head beat in was all the distraction he needed. When he became a marshal—nothing boring there—silence was no longer an issue. Pretty much, the US Marshal Service was involved in everything from judicial and witness security to asset forfeiture. If it involved federal laws, US marshals were there. One day he could chase down a fugitive, the next make sure a witness didn’t get blown away by someone they’d just testified against.
Out here, in his childhood hometown where the streets were desolate after six o’clock and the only outside noise came from birds or cicadas or blowing leaves, the quiet created emotional chaos.
Gotta go.
He leaned down, kissed his aunt’s cheek. “We need to get back to the city. Maybe on the weekend.”
“Saturday,” she said. “After church.”
He laughed. By now he should know better than to throw out a maybe. His aunt took a maybe and turned it into a definitely.
“You could come early and go to church with us.”
Now she wanted church too. Years since he’d done that. Which was a shame. He used to enjoy church, but now it gave him too much time to reflect on things he shouldn’t reflect on. “Don’t push it. Saturday for dinner. I’ll be here. I’ll see what Camille is doing. Don’t worry. I’ll channel the guilt from you.”
She waved her hands. “Oh, with the sass.”
He kissed her again. “I love you. Good night.”
“I love you, too. Drive carefully. No speeding.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He turned to Jenna. “All set?”
Please let her be all set.
She nodded. “You bet.”
He shook hands with the sheriff. “Thank you. I’ll call you with any updates.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
On the way to his SUV, he grabbed the file box off the back of the sheriff’s cruiser, the weight of it, as always, easy to handle. Most of what was in that file he’d probably seen already. Except for the photos. Being a marshal, he’d learned to take emotion out of a case. Even when it came to his mother. He could read the forensics reports, investigator notes and the autopsy report. All of it, he could handle. Even some of the crime scene photos showing the exterior of the house or certain pieces of evidence were tolerable. But not the ones of his mom’s body. Those were a different damned beast, and he couldn’t find a compartment big enough to control the massive anger those pictures would unleash.
Balancing the box against the SUV, he opened the back door, shoved the box on the seat and walked around to get Jenna’s door. By the time he’d gotten there, she already had her hand on the handle.
“I’ve got it,” he said.
“Again with this?”
When he’d picked her up at her apartment, she’d teased him about the gesture. What she didn’t know was his aunt would skin him if he abandoned his manners. Plus, he liked doing it. “Yeah. Again with this. Get used to it and don’t argue.”
He held open the door and waved her into the car. To that, she tilted her chin up and saluted. “Yes, sir.”
And the look on her face, so serious with her cheeks sucked in and her gaze straight ahead, made him laugh. Really laugh.
In front of his mother’s house no less. Helluva thing.
She slid into the car and the interior light illuminated her face and the grin that—wait for it—would cause the punch to his chest. Jenna Hayward was beautiful, but she wasn’t one of those everyday beautiful women you could find anywhere you looked. On sight, she took a man’s legs out from under him. Bam!
He leaned in to get a whiff of her perfume, something floral but light. Not allergy inducing. Thank you. Once again, his eyes went to that extra undone button on her blouse and the lush skin under it. He caught a glimpse of lace and swore under his breath. “Okay, Miss Illinois, cut the wisecracks.”
She straightened up. “Miss Illinois?”
“You think I’m going to let you anywhere near my mother’s case without checking you out?”
* * *
HE KNEW. Not that it was some big secret, but she didn’t necessarily flaunt her beauty queen background. In her line of work, it didn’t gain her anything. All she knew was that at the age of twenty-one, after years of working the pageant circuit, years of hearing her mother coo over how beautiful her daughter was, and the resulting pressure of it all, she’d had enough. Enough of the dieting, enough of having to look a certain way at all times, enough of the show. She simply wanted to be Jenna. A pretty girl who liked to eat cake and pester her detective father with questions about cases.
Playing along, she scissored Brent’s silky tie between two fingers. Nice tie. Nice man. Nice everything. And she so adored the way he interacted with his family. Teasing, but firm and loving when they tried to give him any nonsense.
“My pageant days aren’t classified information. All you have to do is check Google. And, by the way, you failed. I didn’t win. I was the runner-up.”
His lips lifted slightly as he watched her play with his tie. “I didn’t fail. I knew that, but decided it wasn’t worth mentioning. Those judges were either blind or stupid. I’m guessing beauty contest judges need eyesight, so that leaves stupid.”
Did that just send a hot flash raging? This was their problem. That connection, that heat she couldn’t ignore. “Marshal Thompson, are you flirting with me?”
“Nope. Calling it like I see it.”
She flicked away the tie. “I was fifteen pounds lighter then.”
Where did that come from? Sure, her brothers liked to taunt her about packing on a few pounds, but her pageant weight was impossible to maintain. And Jenna had a thing for food. In that she liked it.
“Yet another tragedy,” Brent said.
“What?”
“That you were fifteen pounds lighter.”
In the lit interior of the car, she studied his face. Looking for the tell that he was charming her into possibly removing her clothes. Which, if he kept talking like that, just might happen. Without a doubt, every one of her brain cells must have evaporated. Only explanation for this attack of flightiness.
“You don’t like skinny women?”
“Brent?” his aunt called from the front of the house. “Everything okay?”
He backed away and straightened. “We’re good! Seat belt jammed.”
He shut the door, came around the driver’s side, hopped in and fired the engine. “If we stay here, she’ll be all over us.”
Jenna waited. Would he answer her about the skinny women thing? Part of her wanted to know. The other part wanted to run. Although the extra fifteen pounds had only brought her to a size eight, it still bothered her. Made her wonder what men saw when they looked at the ex-beauty queen whose body had gone fluffy.
At the road, Brent hit the gas and the car tore through the blackness of the country road, the only sound being the radio on low volume. Tim McGraw maybe, but Jenna couldn’t tell. She was more of a pop music girl.
“No,” Brent said.
“No what?”
“I don’t like skinny women. And it’s a damned shame you think you looked better fifteen pounds lighter because, honey, you’re wrong.”
Oh, she might like where this conversation was heading. “I don’t think I looked better.”
“Liar.”
“Hey!”
“Just admit it and be done with it. I saw your picture—nice gown by the way—and I can promise you, from a completely male perspective, you looked like a bean pole back then. A guy my size would break that girl in half.”
“Did you somehow get drunk when you were outside with your family?”
He smiled at that and she liked the sight of it.
“Calling it like I see it,” he said again.
“Well, thank you, I suppose. For the compliment.”
“You’re welcome.”
“It never hurts to hear someone appreciates your looks.”
For a quick second, he turned and the dashboard glow lit his face as he helped himself to a look at her body. “I definitely appreciate your looks. I’d imagine most men do. I think you know that.”
The side of his mouth quirked again—all male and sexy and devilish—and my, oh, my, Jenna’s stomach did a flip. “You’re flirting with me.”
“I might be.”
“Is that wise?”
He laughed. “Probably not. But as I recall, you do your share of flirting.”
She shifted sideways in her seat and the belt scraped the side of her neck. Darn it, that’d leave a mark. Forget it. She needed a snappy comeback, but the big ox was right. Her flirting wasn’t personal, though. What? How insane would she sound if she said that? When she flirted, she did it to get somewhere, to make progress. Flirting for her had become a tactic. A strategic tool in her arsenal.
“We’re adults,” she said. “Let’s just throw it out there that there’s chemistry between us. Or am I totally wrong?”
Sounding a little desperate here, Jenna. What was it with her? Always needing the ego boost. Always needing approval. Blame it on her years of being judged in contests and her failure to get into the FBI, but she couldn’t get through the day without wondering what people thought of her.
“You’re not wrong.”
“About the chemistry, or flirting not being wise?”
“Both.”
She sighed, turned to the front again. “I need to do a good job on this, Brent. It’s important to me.”
“News flash, honey, it’s important to me, too. If you don’t want me flirting with you, I won’t flirt, but you set that tone the second I met you in the hallway outside Penny’s office last spring. Make up your mind what you want from me, Jenna. If you want this all business, it’ll be all business. It can’t be both ways. You decide.”
This man could have grown up in her household. So direct and strong and honest. “I want to do a good job for you. For your mom. She deserves that.”
“Yes, she does.”
“I like flirting with you. For once, it’s not a prop. It’s fun and you have a great smile that I don’t think you show enough. It makes me feel good that I can get you to smile.”
And again, it all rolled around to what made her feel good. Pathetic. She waved her hands and looked out the window. “No flirting.”
“Fine. No flirting. And yeah, you get me to smile, and that doesn’t happen a lot.”
So much for no flirting.
“There’s one thing I want to know.”
“What’s that?”
He glanced at her. “I’m not being a jerk here, I’m seriously curious.”
“I’ve been warned. Ask away.”
“How does someone go from being the runner-up in the Miss Illinois pageant to being a private investigator? And, again, I’m not being a jerk.”
“I don’t mind. People have asked me this question a million times. My father is a career detective. I’ve always been fascinated by what he does. I’d sit and ask him questions. Two of my four brothers are also cops and will probably make detective. I guess you could say we played a lot of real-life Clue when I was little.”
“So, how’d you get to being a PI? Why not join the PD?”
Leave it to him to pursue it. Most people were satisfied with the my-dad-is-a-detective line and dropped the subject. Not Brent. He had to know it all. She looked out the window where the tollway lights dimmed in the distance.
She turned back to him. “I was a psychology major in college.”
“I could see that. You study people.”
“I like to know what makes them tick. After I graduated, I couldn’t see myself in an office all day counseling people. I needed to be out and moving, so I applied for the FBI.”
He shot her a look, and then went back to the road. “You wanted to be an agent?”
“I did. And I wanted it bad.”
“Did you go to the academy?”
“Nope. Never made it that far. They rejected me.”
There, she’d said it. Not many people knew and she held her breath, waited for a crack about the beauty queen wanting to play G-man, or in her case, G-woman.
But Brent watched the road ahead as the tollway entrance drew closer. Shouldn’t have said anything. The man was a US marshal. He’d succeeded where she’d failed. What did she expect him to say? Dumb, Jenna. Heat rose in her cheeks—thank goodness the car was dark—and she rested her head back.
“That’s a shame,” he said. “You’d have made a good agent. You wouldn’t have needed your cleavage to do it, either. Don’t sell yourself short, Jenna. You’re beautiful, but you’re smart, too. Don’t ever forget that.”
The air in her chest stalled and she squeezed her eyes closed. No one, not even her mother who often rolled her eyes at Jenna’s clothing choices, had ever said that. He knew. But she couldn’t get crazy here. He wasn’t offering a glass slipper. All he offered was an opinion.
Still resting her head back, she eased out a breath. “You might be flirting with me, but I don’t care. Thank you for saying that.”
He shrugged. “That time I wasn’t flirting. It’s not complicated. I like you and you’ve got a brain. You don’t need to be half-naked to be good at what you do.”
Suddenly, Jenna wished he’d been flirting, because she might have just fallen a little in love with Brent Thompson.
