Читать книгу Love Under Fire - Frances Housden - Страница 11

Rowan watched Jo, his hackles rising as he saw several other men in the bar do the same. He couldn’t control the spurt of possessiveness awakening the sleeping beast in the back of his mind. And he had to admit, letting it stretch a time or two before reining it in lessened the strain acting so damn nice all the time put on his back teeth. They ached.

Hell, he wanted her.

What man wouldn’t? She was so easy on the eye.

For an extratall woman she gave the appearance of being comfortable in her own skin. No hunching her shoulders. No wearing flat-heeled shoes. No pretence. She was simply herself. Beautiful without seemingly aware of it.

Casually, she walked by the stools on far side of the U-shape, hardly appearing to notice the guy whose clenched fist vibrated with impatience on the bar top. Yet, Rowan knew she wouldn’t forget him in a hurry.

The intrusion of china clattering on the counter by his elbow broke his concentration.

“Worth looking at, isn’t she, McQuaid?”

Eyes off, you sonofabitch! It was all he could do to hold the growl at the back of his throat and swallow it down.

Skelton wasn’t finished, more’s the pity. “Reminds me of her old man. He was a looker too, a real babe magnet. Pity.”

He leaned toward McQuaid, confidential-like. Intuition told Rowan he wasn’t going to like what was coming. Looking away, he took his time, ripping open the paper tube, pouring the sugar into his coffee, stirring until it dissolved.

“You probably know the story. Milo, her father, was my partner, but I don’t think I ever really knew him. He was the kind of guy who played his cards close to his chest. That’s another trait Johanna gets from him. I’ll tell you it shook me up when he committed suicide.”

Rowan had heard enough. He jerked his head toward the other side of the bar. “There’s a guy over there so dry looks like he could spit tacks.”

Skelton didn’t need telling who Rowan was referring to. He looked over his shoulder, saying, “He’ll keep.”

“I don’t think so, you deal with him, then come back and we can deal. No more interruptions.”

“Sure, no worries,” said Skelton. Moving with the smoothness of long familiarity, he slid open the glass fridge door, grabbed a long-necked bottle, an import, and cracked the top.

The round base hit the counter loud enough for Rowan to hear, but their conversation was another matter. The guy scowled down at the beer. It lasted maybe two seconds then his gaze widened fractionally before his pale lids shuttered his eyes, masking his expression. Skelton turned his back on him and like cock-of-the-walk, chest and biceps pumped, stretching the face of the dead rock star on the front, he stalked away. Behind him the guy twisted the top off the bottle. A fountain of froth spewed up the neck and over the counter.

Rowan saw the shape of the curse on his lips, but couldn’t hear. Skelton could. Turning, he glanced over his shoulder as the guy slouched away, leaving the bottle slicked in foam, and untouched by human lips. Skelton simply shook his head, saying, “Kids. You can’t win. Now what do you want to know?”

“Not a lot.” Rowan took a long swig of coffee, checked out Jo over the rim of his cup, and said, “I’ve read your police statement, and I’ve brought a copy of your claim. Tomorrow morning I’ll check out your house. And in the afternoon, with your cooperation, I’ll do the same to your financial situation.”

“You what?” Skelton shrank inside his black T-shirt and the white plastic face of Jim Morrison on the front sagged.

“Cast your mind back to when you took out the policy on your house. Remember the privacy waiver?” Rowan reached into the pocket inside his leather jacket. The papers were folded in four. He spread them out on the counter, rubbing out the creases with his thumb. “Unless you sign this form giving me access to all your accounts, your policy becomes null and void.”

Five minutes later, Rowan had an inventory of all Skelton’s banking, and the name of his accountant. He knew he’d been coming on strong, but the man had brought it on himself with his oh, so innocent, throw-away remarks about Jo’s father. The jerk knew what he was doing; he was just too dumb to realize Rowan knew it, too. At last he had an inkling, if not all, of why Jo didn’t trust the guy. He knew if he’d given the jerk another inch he’d have stabbed her in the back.

Hell, he was banking on being out of Nicks Landing in under a week, could hardly wait. But if Jo’s secrets were going to be blabbed, he’d prefer to hear them from her lips.

And as for his secrets…same goes.

Jo recognized that the resemblance between Ginny and her mother was more than a mass of red curls. As she walked up behind Ms. Wilks, she heard her talking to the patrons in the same gotta-get-it-all-out-in-one-breath style as her daughter.

“Ms. Wilks?”

The woman gave the table a last flick with her cloth and turned, balancing the full tray on her hip. “Get yourself a table, hon. I’ll take your order in a sec.”

“No. I don’t want to order. I wondered if I could have a word?” She wasn’t a short woman but she looked up at Jo, giving her a familiar wide, blue-eyed stare.

“I’m sure the check’s in the mail….” She laughed then, but there wasn’t much humor in it, only the ring of resignation. “I bet you hear that all the time.”

“Actually, no. It’s usually some other excuse. I’m a cop.”

“Omigod! Something bad’s happened. Who is it? Carter or Ginny?” All the color leached out of her face, and in contrast, her hair swung in bright flames as her eyes flicked from side to side as if wondering where next to turn. “Has Carter taken another of his spells?”

Jo felt dreadful. She spoke up quickly, wanting to reassure the distressed woman. “Relax. It’s okay, nothing major. I only wanted a word about Ginny.”

Ms. Wilks released her white-knuckle grip on the tray and Jo made a dive for it, before its weight could send it crashing to the floor. Color returned to the woman’s face as they faced one another, each with a hand on the tray.

“Thanks,” she said shakily. “I couldn’t afford to pay for that lot.” She nodded toward Rocky. “Not out of the wages he pays.”

“My fault. I could have picked my moment better.”

“So what’s Ginny been up to this time?”

“Nothing too awful. Look, why don’t you put down that tray and we can talk about it?”

“Sorry.” Ginny’s mother looked in the direction of the bar again. Rocky was serving the guy Jo had been watching. “I have to keep moving. He’ll dock my wages if I fall behind with my work.”

“How about I walk round with you and we can talk as you work.” Jo asked as she carefully framed her next question. “See that young guy Rocky’s serving, do you know his name? Is he a regular in here?”

“Who, Jeff Smale? Yes, he’s pretty regular. Not that I have much to do with him.” Her nose curled as she sniffed. “Always looks as if he needs a good wash. So, what’s he done?”

“Nothing.” Nothing that she knew of, at the moment. “I thought I’d met him someplace but I don’t recognize the name.”

“Maybe it was one of his brothers? There are three of them, and they all look alike.”

“Maybe that’s it, thanks for your help, Ms. Wilks.” Jo said, but Ginny’s mother was already heading for another table.

She looked over her shoulder. “Call me Betty. I’m more used to it than Ms. Wilks. Now, you were going to tell me about Ginny. I take it she’s in trouble again. She’s not a bad kid, but she’s impulsive. Doesn’t stop to think things through.”