Читать книгу The Maverick - Carrie Alexander, Carrie Alexander - Страница 8

IT’S THE EYES. Sophie’s stomach dropped. Such flat steel-blue eyes couldn’t belong to Luke Salinger. There was no fire, no spirit, no passion—only the cold-blooded stare, appraising her without a spark of recognition.

A silent cry ripped loose from the bonds of her tight control. What had happened to Maverick? Where was the man she’d once loved with all her heart?

Gone away, grown up, never coming back.

Her shock bottomed out. She realized that she’d been staring for too long and licked her dry lips. “Luke Salinger,” she said with no inflection and just a faint tremor.

He nodded.

Sophie felt disconnected from reality, as though she were weightless, as insubstantial as smoke. Yet Luke was the mystery here. She remembered a time when purpose had burned in his eyes, lighting them like a neon sign, charging himself and her and all the rest of the Mustangs with such an excess of energy that trouble was bound to follow.

The spark was gone. He was deadened.

Miserable but trying not to show it, she swiped her hand across her pants before extending her palm. “I need to see your license, registration and proof of insurance.”

He removed a flattened billfold from his back pocket and slipped the driver’s license from its plastic sleeve. Taking the card, she examined it carefully, her eyes flickering between Luke’s watchful gaze and the name and photo on the ID. The license had been issued in California. She read the address. Los Angeles? It wasn’t easy to imagine the Luke she used to know putting up with the plastic superficiality she imagined ran rampant on the coast. But then, this man was a stranger to her. For all she knew, the Luke who’d despised the greed of conspicuous consumption had become a status-conscious spendthrift who shopped Rodeo Drive and ate goat-cheese pizzas at a hundred bucks a pop.

Except that he didn’t look soft and pampered. He was tough, rugged, stringent.

Physically, he’d changed, but not by much. Although he hadn’t thickened the way most men did by their mid-thirties, he’d…hardened. The muscles in his arms and legs and the broad chest beneath an expensive but battered brown leather vest and white sleeveless T-shirt appeared to be as hard as iron. Forged in fire, she thought, glancing briefly into his face. Aside from the shock of his unrecognizable expression, he was as handsome as ever. Only now his skin was tanned and weathered, drawn tight over strong cheekbones and jaw. Not a single strand of gray had sprouted among the dark hair barely restrained by a blue bandanna.

The Luke Salinger she remembered had been more boy than man. That was no longer the case. But the old attraction trickling through her veins was terribly familiar.

Sophie cleared her throat, desperate to distract herself. “Please move away from the bike. Stop. Wait there for just a moment, please.” She stared at her feet as they turned and walked her back toward the patrol car without any conscience decision from her addled brain. Luke’s indifference flummoxed her. Even after fourteen years, was it possible for him to have completely forgotten her? The one thing Luke had never been was lukewarm.

Punch Fiorelli had been watching them, frowning. “Uh, say, Sophie?” Sheepishly he scrubbed a hand across his big, firm belly. “We weren’t going much past the speed limit. You wouldn’t give tickets to two old Mustangs, now, wouldja, honey?”

She said, “You’re in the clear, Punch,” and slumped behind the wheel of the black-and-tan patrol car, boneless as a jellyfish. It was a minute before she gathered herself together and examined the license with a more objective eye. Hesitating to call it in to the dispatcher, she tapped the laminated card against the steering wheel, watching through the windshield as Punch approached Luke and began talking, gesturing at her car. Luke shrugged, nodded. Punch slapped him hard between the shoulder blades, a slap that would have made most men flinch.

Luke didn’t waver. He was looking in Sophie’s direction. Between the distance and the glare of sunshine on the glass, he shouldn’t have been able to see her face very well. But she knew with a panicky certainty that he did see her. He saw inside her, to her dreams and fears and secrets. And he…

He didn’t care.

Her last shreds of hope, already as brown and brittle as fallen leaves, disintegrated into crumbled bits of nothing. Whatever had happened to change Luke into a stranger, it was clear now that his return had come too late for both of them.

Sophie closed her hand around his license and other papers and reached for the radio mike, intending to have him run through the computer for additional outstanding warrants. He’d changed immeasurably. It was possible that he was a fugitive wanted in six states other than Wyoming.

“YOU DO REALIZE that you were speeding when you drove through town,” Sophie said in her curiously toneless voice, tipping up her chin to glare at him from beneath the flat brim of her trooper hat. “I’m going to issue you a citation.”

“A fine welcome,” Luke said, flippant, uncaring.

Her eyes narrowed. “By your own choice.”

She was different…yet the same. Little Sophie Ryan, with the tough-girl attitude that would forever be betrayed by her Cupid’s-bow mouth, the girlish sweep of her lashes and rampant curls the color of butter-brickle ice cream. At the same time she was strangely alien to him in her police uniform with its stained shirtfront and the badge on the pocket and the holstered gun she kept touching as though it were a lucky rabbit’s foot.

Did he scare her?

The thought disturbed him. Her betrayal being what it was—a knife in the gut no matter how many years had passed—he still didn’t care to come across as the kind of man she had to fear. He knew Sophie’s heart. So tender and damaged. Intimidation wasn’t his game.

What was hers?

She licked her lips, a nervous reaction he remembered well. She’d licked her lips, her eyes like saucers, the day he’d asked if she wanted to take a ride on his bike. She’d been barely sixteen, too young and uncertain to be as jaded as she’d put on. Straight off, he’d seen beyond her cocky attitude to the wounded psyche of a girl who was as untethered and searching as he.

“Can you step over to the patrol car, sir?”

Punch seemed anxious. “Hey, now, Soph—”

“No problem,” Luke said, holding up his hands and walking away with Sophie cautiously trailing him. He couldn’t see her expression very well because of the hat, but he could feel the worry and confusion—and maybe attraction—emanating from her. He responded with equally mixed emotions in spite of their past, to such a degree he began to wonder if he’d sped through town in order to attract Deputy Ryan’s attention. Of course he hadn’t known she’d be on patrol, but just the same…

Apparently, a man could hope even when he knew there was no logic to it.

“Place your hands on the hood,” she directed. Her boot nudged his. “Spread ’em.”

Luke knew the stance. The command amused him, coming from Sophie’s baby-doll lips. Without even trying, he remembered the taste of her mouth, the velvet stroke of her tongue. The clarity of the memory was agonizing. Shouldn’t he have forgotten by now?

“What is this?” Punch blustered. “C’mon, you can’t—”

Luke chuckled mirthlessly. “Deputy Sophie’s arresting me, Punch. Don’t interrupt a woman at work.”

Sophie gave him an abrupt shove between the shoulder blades. “Funny guy,” she said, and started patting him down. She was efficient about it, but the effect her hands had on him as they ran over his body was anything but professional. Through his swift arousal, he felt her fingers slip into his back pocket. A small sound followed—the snick of his knife opening.

He looked over his shoulder. Sophie’s left hand tightened on the back of his belt as she held out the knife, the silver blade flashing in the sunshine. She hesitated for a moment, saying nothing, her eyes accusing him.

The corners of his mouth twitched at the thought of her considering him a dangerous character. “A trinket,” he said with a shrug.

She pocketed the knife. Gave him another shove. “I called in your license, Mr. Salinger. There are no outstanding out-of-state warrants on you.” The back of her hands ran lightly over his legs, down, then up the insides, skimming across his thighs. After an infinitesimal hesitation, she cupped his crotch, her fingers skimming for a weapon. The intimate touch lasted for only a split second, but in that one tick of a moment his response leapt at the speed of light. Fire shot to his groin, producing a slight twitch, a thickening rush of desire. She gave a small gasp and pulled her hand away, her cheeks flaring as pink as the cotton candy he’d once fed her at the county fair.

“Yeah, aside from the one nasty breaking and entering charge, I’ve been a very good boy.” His voice was rough, mocking, certain that Sophie’s reaction to his old arrest would be as cold as a bucket of ice water. He needed to douse the fire between them right now. Or, heaven help him, jail would seem like a reasonable alternative.

“You’re not getting off so easy this time,” she snapped with frigid precision. He silently complied when she jerked his arms behind his back and clamped a hard metal bracelet around his wrist. “You forget. There’s more than one charge. Add vandalism, arson and evading arrest and you’re looking at a nice stay in the state pen, Mr. Salinger.”

“Neither the Salingers nor the Lucases do hard time,” he pointed out with fake good humor, which seemed to make her even colder and angrier. “When push comes to shove, they bribe the judge.”

She yanked at his wrist and clicked the other handcuff into place. “Judge Cobb retired. We’ll see if Judge Entwhistle is as lenient.”

“Aw, Soph—handcuffs? Do you really need handcuffs?” Punch spread his upturned palms. “This is Maverick—you remember Maverick. Hell, you and him used to be—”

“Old news,” Sophie said. “If Mr. Salinger didn’t want to be arrested he shouldn’t have come back to a town where there are charges against him on the books. I’m just doing my job.”

“Man, when did you get to be such a hard-ass?” Punch complained. “Shucks, girl, you used to ride with the Mustangs! We don’t turn on one of our own.”

“All that was a long time ago,” Sophie said. She stole a quick look at Luke. “Things have changed.”

Not as much as either of them might have wanted. He thought of the fleeting touch of her hand between his legs. And his instantaneous reaction.

“Everything’s changed,” she added under her breath.

In the shadow of the hat brim, her eyes were large and liquid, betraying a modicum of shyness despite her position of authority. There was still a beguiling air of innocent femininity about her.

Only the appearance of it, Luke reminded himself, trying again to be ruthless.

He scowled, unable to reconcile his memories of the teenage Sophie with both the woman she was now and all that he’d been told of her since he’d skipped town. Fourteen years was too immense a span to leap when doubts were nipping at his heels.

One question was clanging inside his head. What if he’d been wrong about her?

Sophie read him his rights in a flattened, disaffected voice, then hustled him into the patrol car. Punch gave her a hard time, sputtering and complaining, looking ready to carry out his nickname. The burly Italian calmed down some when Luke asked him to look after the motorcycle, but he continued to glower at Sophie, muttering under his breath. She unconcernedly went about her job, slamming shut the back door and climbing behind the wheel. She swept off her hat, started the car and reached for the radio all at the same time, and was soon reporting her progress to the dispatcher as she spun the steering wheel one-handed. The tires squealed. She trod on the gas, aiming the car straight down the mountain.

Luke watched the scenery for a while, silent as a stone while he tried to work out the ramifications of his arrest on his unsuspecting family. Tough to concentrate on what would be a replay of the same old recriminations and accusations when Sophie was sitting a few feet away. His gaze kept straying to the curve of her fragile neck, framed by a crisp collar and the wild corkscrew curls that had come loose from her hair clip. She held her shoulders and head with a stiff military precision—no more broody teenage slouch. And she’d filled out some, was stronger and more substantial than the reed of a girl she’d been the last time he’d seen her. She’d become physically confident, he decided. Brisk and competent, certain enough of herself to handle a job that called for a typically male brand of aggression.

Little Sophie Ryan had truly become a cop, just as Heath had claimed. Luke shook his head in amazement, even though it might not be such a strange career choice when he considered her final gesture toward him.

He wasn’t especially worried about the old charges she’d arrested him for. In fact, he’d assumed that his grandmother had smoothed that over years ago. Not out of a particular concern for him, but to protect the precious family name. For all the affection between them, he’d never been as valuable to Mary Lucas as the family’s history, longevity and status, which she’d preserve at all costs.

Roughly fourteen years ago, he and a few of the Mustangs had broken into a lawyer’s office in Treetop. For Luke, the mission had justified the means. He’d been too narrowly focused to foresee how quickly the break-in would escalate into a free-for-all, particularly when his liquored-up friends were involved. Demon and Snake had started trashing the place—supposedly to cover their tracks. Luke had grabbed what he’d come for and hustled them out as quickly as he could. Too quickly, it had turned out, because he’d overlooked the lighted lamp that had fallen off the desk onto a sheaf of upended files. They’d been long gone before the fire had started.

Being young and stupid was no defense. He was guilty. No one would believe it now, but back then, as rebellious as he’d been, he’d intended to turn himself in after learning about the fire. All he’d wanted was to see Sophie first. To tell her that it would be okay, that she should stay strong and wait for him even if he was sent to jail.

He remembered driving to her dad’s dumpy trailer on what had turned out to be his last night in town. The crisp autumn air had been tinged with the scent of snow, and there had been a wildly romantic notion of inviting Sophie to run away with him floating around inside his head. The patrol car parked in the Ryan’s weed-choked driveway had stopped him like a brick wall.

First he thought that Sophie was merely being questioned. But the snatches of conversation he’d caught through the thin aluminum sides of the trailer seemed to tell a different tale. By all appearances, Luke’s girlfriend—loyal little Sophie—was ratting him out.

He’d let impulse take over, leaving Treetop in a fury so hot it had shriveled his breaking heart into a coal. That had always been his way—covering pain with burning anger. Learning the art of icy detachment had taken years.

In his early days on the road, when he had no idea where to go or what to do, a small part of him had clung to the hope that the situation wasn’t what it seemed. Sophie had been put into a no-win position—his fault all the way. But when he’d called the ranch, his older brother Heath had reported the ugly truth of Sophie’s actions. The word had spread throughout Treetop. To save her hide, Sophie Ryan had told Deputy Ed Warren everything she knew. As a result, charges were being brought against the Mustangs.

Given Luke’s culpability, he might have forgiven her that…if she hadn’t done worse. Again, Heath had been the reluctant messenger. It seemed that Sophie had not only betrayed Luke in spirit, she’d betrayed him in body.

The end.

To this day, Luke didn’t know which hurt more—leaving Sophie or loving Sophie.

But what if he’d been wrong about her? What if he’d been wrong to believe in secondhand gossip instead of the heart-and-guts proof of their actual relationship?

No. There was evidence, the kind she couldn’t hide.

Luke coughed. “I hear you’ve got a kid.”

Sophie’s alarmed eyes met his in the rearview mirror; the car shot dangerously fast around one of the switchback curves. She slammed her foot on the brake, sending the back end fishtailing into a soft sandy spot on the shoulder of the road.

“Take it easy,” Luke said, just before he was flung across the seat as she bumped back onto the road. By the time he’d awkwardly righted himself, pushing himself up with his hands cuffed behind his back, she’d gotten the car under control and was proceeding as if he hadn’t spoken, her lips tightly pursed. He sought her eyes in the mirror, but she wouldn’t look at him.

“A boy,” he said.

Her fingers clenched on the wheel. “Let’s keep this strictly business.”

“Not possible.”

Her head jerked sideways and he caught a glimpse of her pale face and stormy eyes, brimmed by thick brown lashes. “What did you say?”

“You and I will never be strictly business.”

“Fourteen years without contact certainly indicates otherwise.”

“Nope. Fourteen years without contact only means that we both went cold turkey. Now that I’m back…” He let the smoldering heat inside him flow into his intense stare. It was amazing how physical desire could blot out one’s doubts. “Things are bound to be different. There’s a wicked temptation in proximity.” If she hadn’t cuffed him, he could have run his finger along her exposed nape to remind her of the sparks that flew between them. It was obvious that maturity had only deepened the attraction.

His fingers flexed. Was her skin still as smooth as satin? He’d always been astonished by how soft she was beneath her rough cotton blouses and cheap denim jeans. His sweet little Sophie had been a pink rose bristling with thorns.

She caught her breath. “Don’t—” She exhaled noisily. “Don’t you even think of starting up with me again, Luke Salinger. I’m not interested.”

“Well, well. Little Sophie’s learned to stand up for herself.”

“I finally figured out that no one else would do it for me.”

“Yeah.” He remembered the patrol car parked in her driveway on that fateful night. With all her defiance, why hadn’t she stood up for him? Although he’d never have dreamed of asking her to lie, it had turned out that he’d wanted her unflinching support. Had counted on it. Discovering that not even Sophie was prepared to back him up had seemed like the final cruel blow.

Years later, he understood that the situation hadn’t been so black-and-white. He’d made mistakes himself. Bad ones. Perhaps even irreparable.

“Life sure is a bitch, huh, Little Soph?” he said coaxingly.

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, uncoaxed. “May I remind you that I’m your arresting officer?”

“Something you’ve been waiting to do for a long time, I’d wager.” He kept his tone nonchalant. Even so, he could tell by the way she cocked her head that she’d caught the underlying accusation.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, softly menacing.

“Only that a jail cell’s where you think I belong. Maybe you always did.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t speak for a long while. When finally she did, he couldn’t tell if the quaver in her voice indicated guilt or regret or maybe even longing. “Oh, Luke,” she said. “Why’d you come back?”

“Hey, babe, you don’t sound happy to see me.”

She slammed the flat of her hand on the steering wheel. “Try to be serious, please. I need to know why you’ve come back after so long. What made you—” A shudder coursed through her. “Why?”

He hesitated, wondering about the worry in her voice. It was as if she feared him. And that didn’t make sense.

“Haven’t you heard?” he said mildly, settling on the easiest of his reasons for returning to Wyoming. “The Lucases are having a family reunion at the ranch. A black sheep is just what they need to complete the happy get-together.”

Watching her face in the mirror, he caught the relief that flashed over her features. It was gone before he could fully weigh it. “And that’s all?” she prodded, her brows beetled.

He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. The links of the cuffs jingled. “Looks like I’m going to have a date in the courts as well. Thanks to you, Deputy Ryan.”

“I’m sure the family lawyer will take care of the problem in a snap.” She’d probably meant to sound gruff, unaware that a hint of concern had crept into her voice. “Judge Entwhistle is tough but fair. She’ll take into account your clean record.” Sophie cleared her throat. “As long as it’s completely clean, that is.”

“You mean, have I been carrying out a lawless rampage for the past fourteen years?” He shrugged. “Nope. I’m squeaky clean. Other than for a recent speeding ticket.”

She smiled. Then quickly sobered. “So what have you been doing all this time?”

“A little bit of everything.”

“In the old days, that meant carousing, disturbing the peace, malicious mischief…”

“A guy learns to be more discreet when he’s on the lam.”

“On the lam for fourteen years?” Sophie braked at the highway intersection. “Some life.”

“Yeah, it’s been real fulfilling,” he growled, taunting her. What did she care? She’d cast him aside, hadn’t she?

“You always did suit your name,” she said softly. “Apparently you’re still an untamed maverick.” Her chin tilted, showing him her narrowed eyes. “When are you going to grow up, huh?”

“Like you? Little Sophie Ryan with her uniform and her handcuffs and her big, bad gun?”

She twisted around in the seat. “At least I’ve stayed in one place and built something good and lasting for myself! I’ve lived up to my responsibilities!”

Luke was taken aback. “Sophie?” he said quietly, puzzled by her vehemence.

A truck stacked with hay bales rattled past. She stepped on the gas and pulled out behind it with a spin of the tires—obviously her driving hadn’t improved just because she was now piloting a patrol car. “Forget I said that. I was only blowing off steam.”

He insisted. “What responsibility have I shirked?”

She hunched her shoulders. “I expect your family could answer that better than me.”

“Maybe.” But he didn’t think that was what she’d meant. He went silent for a few minutes, trying to evaluate the situation from Sophie’s viewpoint, with the aid of years of hindsight. If she’d been as angry and mixed-up as he, shouldn’t he be able to find enough compassion to forgive her own lapse—or lapses, according to Heath—of good judgment?

I don’t know if I can. He’d been Sophie’s first lover; his possessiveness had run strong. The shock of her betrayal had been the only way he’d made the break, and still his unreasoning desire for her had remained—a torturous emotion to live with, driving him to dangerously escalating extremes in his work as a stuntman, all part of the effort to get her out of his mind until he’d finally smartened up and realized that seeing her again was the only way to know for sure.

“I left you,” he said. “You’re still holding a grudge about that?”

She gave a short, hard, dismissive laugh. No answer.

They were passing Punch’s place, nearing the town. In a short while Sophie would turn back into Deputy Ryan and Luke would have missed his chance. He had to speak now—or forever hold his peace.

“I wanted to take you with me, you know.”

She went as quiet and watchful as an owl, her rounded eyes reflected in the mirror.

“My brown-eyed girl,” he whispered, lost in a sudden swirl of bittersweet memory. Slow dancing with Sophie in the gravel parking lot of the Thunderhead since she was too young to go inside, her head flung back, her dark eyes on his. Speeding on his motorcycle, taking the switchback at a reckless speed, her arms wrapped tight around his waist. Hours spent lying together in the long grass of the Boyer’s Rock pasture, the sun-warmed earth their refuge, their cradle. Trading kisses, whispering confessions, studying the stars.

Sophie blinked. Several times. “Sure you wanted to take me. So much so that you left town without even saying goodbye.” Her voice was clotted with wary resentment.

Yet hopeful? he wondered, then deliberately reminded himself of why he’d left her behind in the first place. According to Heath—and other walking, talking evidence in the form of her son—she’d not only spilled her guts to the sheriff, she’d quickly found “consolation” with a string of other men.

Luke refused to let her see how badly that tore at his insides. Ice water in my veins. “Well, jeez, Sophie, I guess I figured that if you were willing to turn me in to the sheriff, keeping me as your boyfriend was not a top priority.”

She stopped the car in the middle of Granite Street, two blocks from the police station. Luckily there was very little traffic, as was usually the case in Treetop.

“Luke…” she said, turning to stare at him over the top of the car seat. Slowly she shook her head. “I didn’t.”

Anguish clawed at his gut. “You didn’t?”

She was adamant, proud, passionate—his Sophie, his brown-eyed girl. “No, Luke. I most certainly did not turn you in to the sheriff!”

SOPHIE TURNED THE KEY and sat dully in her thirteen-year-old hatchback—same age as her son—waiting for the engine to stop rattling. A wisp of smoke rose from the tailpipe.

She sighed. There was no way she could afford a new car this year, not if she intended to heat the house during the long, cold winter, keep Joey in jeans, sneakers and pizza, plus pay tuition for the last two courses she needed to complete her degree in social work. If going to college part-time had given her any smarts at all, she’d have chosen a field that paid better. Having a career that meant something to her and the world at large was more important to her happiness in the long run, but in the short run, her old car was ready to plunk its last ker-plunkety plunk.

Sophie’s head throbbed. Maybe her dad could work on the engine again, keep it going a little longer with another bubblegum-and-rubber-band miracle.

She pushed the door open with a creak and stepped out, tired to her bones. Aside from the wicked headache, it wasn’t a physical exhaustion as much as a mental one. The psychological trauma of Maverick’s return had done her in.

Facing her father and son was what she dreaded next. If Archie “Buzzsaw” Ryan had made his rounds to the Thunderhead and the liquor store instead of moldering in his trailer out back, he’d have heard the news. Word wouldn’t have reached Joey as fast. Even if it had, he wouldn’t really care about an adult he’d never met. Unless some busybody had started up with the old rumor about Luke Salinger being Joe Ryan’s father…

Rolling her head to ease the tight muscles in her neck and shoulders, Sophie clumped up the porch steps of her two-bedroom wood frame cottage. Coming home usually gave her a boost. The small house wasn’t much, but it was hers—at least the mortgage was—and she’d worked hard to make it into the kind of safe, cozy home she’d never known, growing up. Today it just looked like a money pit—a conglomeration of loose shingles, dripping faucets, crumbling plaster and buckling linoleum. If she hadn’t splashed bright jewel-toned coats of paint on every surface to distract the eye, there’d be no disguising that the place was coming down around their ears.

“Hey, Joe?” she called from the pumpkin-colored front hall, even though the silence told her that her son wasn’t home. She checked the clock. Time for a bath before she had to start dinner. If ever there was a day when she needed to be cleansed of her cares and woes, it was today.

Luke already knows about Joey.

The thought had pulsed at the back of her mind all day, a red-for-danger strobe that had given her the vicious headache. As the tub filled, she popped a couple of aspirin, staring at her face in the mirror over the sink.

“He doesn’t know everything,” she told her bleak reflection.

But he soon will—someone’s bound to repeat the rumor, argued the voice that had taken control of her pounding skull. What will you do when he shows up, asking if it’s true?

How badly did she want Joey to have a father?

“I can’t think about it now.” Sophie stripped off her uniform and dropped it in the hamper. She’d have to remember to bring the ruined shirt to the dry cleaner’s tomorrow morning—another expense she could do without.

As if it mattered in the larger scheme of things. After this morning, she had worse problems than coffee stains to think about. Confronting them made her headache intensify. She could have sworn it was gnawing away her brain.

Luke suspects.

She winced in pain.

Heath Salinger knows.

The townspeople think they know.

Gad, her head was going to explode.

But everyone’s wrong—including me.