Читать книгу Unsanctioned Memories - Julie Miller - Страница 12

Jess. The name had slipped out as naturally and familiarly as if he’d known her for years instead of fewer than twenty-four hours. He’d shouted the word as if he had the right to personalize a nickname for her, a right to care about the deathly pallor and stark terror he’d seen etched across her face.

Sam breathed a sigh that did little to ease his frustration and guilt.

Jess Taylor was afraid of cats.

Interesting.

Not that she’d admit it, and it wasn’t terribly helpful to his mission, but it was an interesting tidbit of information to add to her file.

Sam rolled the dusty, grit-filled wheelbarrow over to the hose and spigot at the west side of the cabin and turned on the water, letting it run until the sun-warmed water ran cold. He was starting to learn all kinds of interesting things about his eccentric employer, few of which were any help in tracking down Kerry’s killer. But he took note of them, all the same.

Like the fact she cooked food as if she was feeding an army of gourmands. Her idea of throwing together sandwiches for lunch had been a mouthwatering, deli-style feast, complete with homemade sourdough bread, deviled eggs and pecan pie.

He’d also learned that her legs were about a mile long, and she’d dangled them off the edge of the porch with an abandon that left him fantasizing about what they’d look like in something besides a ratty pair of work jeans. Something short. Covered in shimmery stockings. Or in nothing at all.

“Damn.” Sam shook his head to dispel the image of long, shapely legs waltzing through his weary imagination. He squirted the hose into the air and let the cold water spritz across the sticky bare skin of his back and shoulders, easing the ill-advised heat that had been building inside him all afternoon. The unseasonable seventy-eight-degree weather and demanding physical labor weren’t the only things that had him all fired up.

His fingers had itched inside his work gloves, longing to sift through the casual curls of Jess’s hair to see if it was as light and silky as it looked. And her own hands were part earth mother, part artist. Long, strong fingers that moved with elegant ease through whatever task she undertook. The thought of her touching him with the same fine-tuned confidence with which she stroked her dog or curled them around the trigger of a shotgun had him breathing deeply and praying for a break in the muggy heat even now.

But despite his body’s stirring interest in her long, leanly curved shape and soft blue eyes, Jessica Taylor was a woman who required a patience and expertise he didn’t possess. Not in the relationship department, at any rate. He hadn’t been with a woman since before Kerry’s death. He hadn’t even gone on a date. He’d lost his ability to connect with his heart that night he’d ID’ed his sister’s body at the morgue.

The only emotions he’d been able to feel with any conviction were anger, sorrow and guilt.

Tenderness and compassion were foreign to him now.

The victim of a brutal rape would need both in abundant supply.

Sam sprayed the water across his shoulders again and tried to get a decent drink from the end of the nozzle. He had no business thinking personal thoughts about his new boss. She wouldn’t be interested in any kind of intimacy with him—with any man—right now. And as much as he would love to hear that hot, steamy voice of hers couched in a seductive whisper, he wasn’t the man with the skills to make it happen. He couldn’t afford the distraction from his real purpose. His only purpose.

He had less than a month left on his leave. Less than a month to find out the truth. Less than a month to mete out the justice his baby sister deserved.

Thoughts of vengeance cleared his mind and tamped down his libido as nothing else could.

Sam turned the jet of water onto the wheelbarrow and rinsed it out. If only he could cleanse his soul of its guilt, his heart of its anger and sorrow so easily. He’d give Jess a couple of days to get used to having him around. And then he’d start a subtle push for information—and a not-so-subtle search of the place the minute she was gone. She must keep a journal or a planner or something that would give him a lead on the bastard who’d attacked her and killed Kerry.

Of course, there wasn’t just Jess’s distrust and stubbornness to get around. There was that damn mutt. Hopefully, Harry stayed by her side even when she traveled. He’d have a hard time explaining a drugged dog or a nasty bite if she left the Shepherd mix to patrol the premises while she was gone.

And he’d already learned that Jessica was protected by the watchful eye of the local sheriff. Curtis Hancock might be down-home-country personified, but Sam wouldn’t underestimate the portly man’s intelligence or skill as a law enforcement officer. This was his territory. He wasn’t afraid to ask questions, and he picked up quickly on local gossip. Would he pick up on Sam’s secret intentions as well?

Sam flattened his mouth into a determined line. The sheriff might be smart, but he was smarter. He wouldn’t let Curtis Cow Pie or anyone else stand in the way of finding Kerry’s killer.

He tipped the barrow over and attacked the wheel with the water, grasping the hose’s gun-shaped nozzle between his steady hands and taking certain aim at each glob of dirt and grime. Yeah. Poof. Just like that. Smack. Right between the eyes. Bang. Dead center in the—

“You’re pretty good with that thing. I don’t suppose I should have you water the garden, though. The tomatoes would never survive.”

Sam tensed at the sultry, smart-aleck voice behind him. He quashed the instinctive urge to spin around and point his facsimile weapon at the woman intruding on target practice. He wasn’t sure how to respond to Jessica Taylor’s ribbing sarcasm. He hadn’t expected humor from her. He hadn’t expected the urge to toss back a comment as if she’d made some type of flirty come-on instead of an astute observation.

Not that it mattered. How the hell had she gotten the drop on him? He couldn’t blame it on the force of the water pinging against the wheelbarrow’s metal frame. He’d been off his game. He’d been so focused on not noticing her that he hadn’t…well…noticed her.

So much for not being distracted from his purpose.

“Hey. Is it quittin’ time?” he asked.

“It’s past time. I should have had you knock off half an hour ago.”

Without betraying his surprise, Sam eased his grip on the nozzle and shut off the hose before he turned and looked at Jess. He was noticing all kinds of things now. The setting sun cast a rosy glow across her cheeks and ignited the deep red tints in her tousled hair. Despite his best intentions, a very basic awareness simmered along his nerve endings. Even without a speck of makeup, there was no hiding her classic beauty.

There was no hiding the determined way she held out the frosted glass of lemonade like a peace offering, either. “Here. I imagine you worked up a pretty good thirst this afternoon.”

Her blue gaze boldly met his, but he suspected her directness had less to do with confidence than with keeping a careful eye on him.

“Thanks.” Sam dropped the hose, wiped his palms across the hips of his jeans and extended his hand, taking careful note of the big furry beast standing guard between them, watching his movements with something like a dare in his brown-black eyes. With a cautious bit of challenge himself, Sam reached out. “He doesn’t mind sharing, does he?”

She pushed the drink into his hand and smiled. “Lemonade isn’t Harry’s thing. Try it. It’s my mother’s recipe.”

The glass felt icy cold in Sam’s grip, and the condensation on the outside dribbled through his fingers. “Nice. I feel cooler already.” He raised his glass in a toast of thanks, then tipped his head back and emptied half the delicious concoction in three long, throat-soothing swallows.

“Now, if I’d offered you a cheeseburger…” Sam glanced down as her voice abruptly stopped. The dog tilted his nose up and looked at her as if he understood the word. Or maybe he’d picked up on the sudden tension radiating from his mistress. Sam didn’t need the dog’s intuitive senses to see the way her smile flatlined and the color blanched from her cheeks.

“Jess?” Sam shook his head, quickly correcting himself before she had any reason to walk away from him. Or, more likely, run. “Miss Taylor? Are you all right?”

Her gaze stuttered down his torso, then darted from pec to pec, shoulder to shoulder. She looked back and stared a hole dead center of his chest. “Where’s your shirt?” She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her whole body away. “Don’t you have a shirt you can put on?”

Sam splayed his fingers across the mat of black hair at the center of his chest, subconsiously shielding her from whatever had offended her prudish sensibilities. “I didn’t know there was a dress code. Sorry, I…” He set his icy glass on the end of the porch and circled around Jess, the dog and a rainwater barrel that was being used for trash, striding toward the railing that led up the back porch steps. “I’ll put it back on.”

He snatched his damp, dusty black T-shirt from the wooden post at the end of the railing, and fumbled to get it turned right side out. He kept his irritation and concern to himself. Half a step forward and three steps back seemed to chart his progress with her. She’d seen his naked back when she’d walked up, hadn’t she? Why hadn’t she said anything then? He supposed he’d been the only one to feel an instantaneous attraction.

Still, the prick on his ego meant nothing. The last thing he wanted was to make Jess nervous in any way. She’d clam up, or fire him, making his quest for information practically impossible. He pulled the sleeves of his shirt free and scrunched up the material. He had one arm jammed into its sleeve when he felt five long, strong fingers latch on to his wrist.

“Wait. I’m the one who’s sorry.” Sam froze at the unexpected touch. He forced the tension from his body and looked down at Jess as she pulled his arm to his side. She came up to his shoulder, standing tall. But her deep-blue eyes were marred by a frown as they locked on to his. Her fingertips kneaded against his racing pulse. Although he suspected the gesture was meant to soothe, to silently apologize—if she even knew she still held him—Sam found the tender touch oddly seductive. He was reassured by her gentle show of bravery. “You must think I’m a total flake.”

“No.” Any irritation fled in the face of her courage to make things right between them. “I made myself at home, and you weren’t comfortable with that.”

He was beginning to get an idea of why his bare torso bothered her. She wasn’t at fault. Her attacker had probably been shirtless, and just as close—even closer—to her than he’d been a moment ago. And he was a big man, strong enough to overpower her if he was that kind of male. But Sam wasn’t supposed to know about the rape. He couldn’t respond with sympathy or understanding of a victim’s fears. He couldn’t apologize for scaring her without giving himself away. So he shrugged his shoulders and opted for a humourous out instead.

“I just figured you didn’t like the looks of me.”

“No. It’s a nice chest.”

Sam grinned at her vehement argument. “Thanks.”

Her cheeks flooded with color, flustering herself and flattering him all at the same time. “I mean, of course, it’s a nice chest. You probably work out. And…” There had been nothing shy about her firm touch. But suddenly she snatched her hand away in a rapid release and retreat. She retreated all the way to the end of the porch. “This is silly. You’d think I was a gawky teenager again.”

“Miss Taylor—”

“No.” She spun around and faced him. Her fingers opened and closed in angry bursts of anger and self-recrimination. The dog danced around her feet. “It’s almost eighty degrees out here, and the humidity’s higher than that. Every one of my brothers would have had their shirts off if they’d been working the way you have. I apologize for the double standard.”

“Don’t.” He followed her, pulling on his shirt despite her protests. “Something made you uncomfortable.”

Was it him? Did he look like her rapist? A tall Caucasian with dark hair? Great. Getting close to her would be damn near impossible if he reminded her of her attacker. On the other hand, it gave him a physical description he hadn’t had before. Maybe if he could pinpoint exactly what it was about him that frightened her so he’d have a definite clue.

Now, to keep her talking. Sam picked up his glass, then leaned his hips against the edge of the wooden porch. It was a relaxed, nonthreatening pose, cutting a few inches off his height and keeping his distance. He took another drink of the sweet-tart lemonade and switched to a safer topic. “Compliments to your mom. You say she taught you how to make this?”

Jess had shoved her fingers beneath the dog’s collar, petting him and holding him close at the same time. “Yes. Things weren’t always easy for us growing up—I come from a big family. But always on our birthdays she’d fix us whatever we wanted. For me it was always a big fresh pitcher of lemonade.”

It wasn’t so irresistible that she wouldn’t come over to pick up her glass where it sat on the porch beside him. But he didn’t point out the obvious. The goal was to keep her talking, after all. “You have a summer birthday, then?”

Her wide, unadorned mouth blossomed into a smile. She shook her head, almost laughing. “December, actually.”

Her amusement triggered his own urge to smile. “Where’d she get the fresh lemons that time of year?”

“My mother’s pretty resourceful.”

Must run in the family. It couldn’t be just dumb luck that enabled Jess to survive her attack.

“Here.” He picked up her glass and held it out. She kept one hand on the dog but accepted the offer, not even flinching the way he almost did when their fingertips accidentally brushed against each other. Sam cooled his jets with another sip of the cold liquid and silently cursed the untimely awakening of his hormones. “I don’t suppose you or your mom would share the recipe?” he asked, putting the conversation back on track.

“The secret is to add a few squirts of lime juice. And to cook the sugar down into a syrup before adding it. I keep some on hand.” She took a long drink and savored it. “It tastes more like a fountain drink this way.”

Sam drained the last of his. “That’s it. It does taste like it was made in an old-fashioned soda fountain.” Which brought them full circle back to his initial impression that she’d brought him the lemonade as a peace offering. “So what did I do to deserve the special treatment?”

His question hung in the muggy air, and after a moment Sam assumed Jess wasn’t going to answer him. But he needed to learn to stop underestimating this woman’s backbone. She hugged her glass to her chest, unmindful of the beads of condensation soaking into her baggy shirt. She looked him straight in the eye when she decided to speak. “I wanted to tell you a couple of things about me. Why I got weirded out by the sheriff and the cat. And, I guess, explain why your…bare chest…set me off.”

Sam held himself perfectly still, masking the sudden flood of anticipation that tensed his entire body. This was it. He counted off each breath, tamping down the need to shake the answers he needed out of her even faster. He drew on the blarney of his Irish ancestors to keep his tone mildly curious. “I’m listening.”

She looked down and stroked the dog, as if that constant contact gave her strength.

“I was…mugged…a few months back.” It was only half a truth. Not even that. He’d learned that much just reading the sketchy report she’d given the Chicago police. “Sometimes…” She determinedly raised her gaze to his. “Things remind me of that night. I think the sheriff, holding the cat out—reaching for me like that—is what set me off.”

Sam squeezed his fingers around his glass. He had the forethought to set it down before his frustration shattered it. A damn lie was less help than knowing nothing. Yet he couldn’t call her on it. He couldn’t demand the truth. But he did ask, “Your mugger wasn’t wearing a shirt?”

“I…he…” Her expression clouded over. She closed up and turned away. She was done sharing info.

But he wasn’t done needing answers.

“He didn’t look like me, did he? Tall? Black hair?” Gray eyes? Midthirties? Irish? Dressed in a sweat-stained black T-shirt and blue jeans?

But Sam couldn’t ask those questions. He couldn’t follow up, he couldn’t push, the way he’d been trained to run an investigation. But he needed something. He slowly rose to his feet. “I’d hate to think I remind you of him. That I scare you.”

“You don’t.”

Liar. She’d backed off a step the instant he stood. What wasn’t she telling him? “Did the police catch him?”

“No.” At least that much was true. “I guess I’m afraid he might…”

“Might what? Come here looking for you?” Not likely for a mugger. A serial rapist, on the other hand…He had no doubt her fear was genuine. “I suppose he took your wallet and can find your address. Why don’t you tell me what he looks like, so I can help keep an eye out for him. The dog’s great protection, but—”

“I just wanted to tell you that so you wouldn’t think I was crazy.” Now she was mad, as if she resented him pushing for even that much information. Her voice caught on a husky croak of temper and fear. “I don’t want to share the details.” She picked up his glass, slipping beside him with a visible effort to avoid touching him. “And I definitely don’t want to share them with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” A sharp bark from the dog glued his hand to his side when he reached for her. Sam glared at the guard beast but wisely stood still while Jess stalked away. “So I do remind you of your attacker.”

“Attacker?” She spun around. “I never said he…”

Jess’s temper and posture sagged as if the switch that kept her running had been suddenly turned off. Sam heard the crunch of gravel the same time her eyes fixed on a point in the distance. Harry barked. He, too, had noticed the teal-green van cresting the hill and slowing as it neared the entrance to Log Cabin Acres.

“Expecting someone?” Sam angled himself toward the approaching vehicle and made some quick mental notes. Two people—the driver and a passenger—inside. Missouri plates. His protective hackles rose, his senses fine-tuned with a hyperawareness of the intruders as they drove between the brick pillars at Jess’s front gate. “It’s after six.” He glanced back over his shoulder to remind her of the excuse she’d tried to use to dismiss him last night. “You want me to tell them you’re closed?”

“We can’t turn them away. They’re my parents.” As the van came up the main drive toward the parking lot, Jess released the dog who was pacing back and forth at her feet. “Go, boy.”

Harry took off at a lope to greet what must be a familiar vehicle. His bark and gait were considerably more joyful than the protective charge with which he’d greeted Sam’s arrival.

But releasing the dogs, so to speak, was a stalling tactic, Sam realized. While Harry ran ahead to meet their visitors, Jess was smoothing out the wrinkles in her shirt, pinching her cheeks, finger combing her hair. More than that, she was breathing deeply, preparing herself. For what? Sam watched her transformation from defensive and upset to welcoming and wondered what was going on. Was she hiding something from her parents, too?

As the van’s doors opened, Jess pasted a serene smile on her face and turned to greet them. “Hey, Ma. Dad.”

Sam hung back and watched the scene unfold. A stocky man, six feet in height, with silver at the temples of his tobacco-colored hair climbed out from the driver’s side and clapped his hands. Harry instantly propped his front paws on the man’s shoulders and proceeded to lick his face. “That’s my boy.” The man grunted a sound that seemed to excite the dog even more.

Where were the bared teeth the dog had shown Sam?

“Good grief, Sid, you haven’t even kissed your daughter yet.” A tall, slender woman with soft, silvery curls framing her face climbed out the passenger side. She carried a covered dish.

The stocky man answered back with a laugh. “It’s all right, Martha. Jessie and I like our dogs.” He winked. “Don’t we, sweetie?”

Sam’s gaze immediately caught the elegant sway of Jess’s backside as she strolled up to her father and greeted him with a hug and a kiss. “That’s right, Dad. How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling fine, thank you very much.” He patted his hand against his chest. “Healthy as a ham.”

“Hambone, you mean,” chided Jess’s mother.

Not to be outdone on the welcoming committee, Harry bounded around the van and met Martha Taylor halfway. He obeyed her “Down” command and was rewarded with a thorough scratch around his ears, some blown kisses and an indulgent, “How’s my great big grand-doggie today?”

Harry ate up the attention.

“Hey, Ma.”

“Hey, sweetie.” The dog returned to his good buddy, Grandpa, while the women hugged.

Sam noted that genetics ran strong in the Taylor family. Jess was a younger version of her mother, matching her classic lines and height inch for inch. Yet she’d inherited her father’s rich dark hair.

Jess’s smile never wavered as they traded information about their drive from the city. And she still wore that mask of not a care in the world when she stretched out her arm and invited him over to join them. “Ma, Dad, I want you to meet my new hired hand, Sam O’Rourke. These are my parents, Sid and Martha Taylor. They live in the city. Just north of downtown.”

Sid Taylor immediately stepped forward and gripped Sam in a firm handshake. “O’Rourke.”

Sam understood that he was being checked out for his suitability to spend time in his daughter’s company, even as an employee. Sam had done the same thing himself with his sister’s dates and co-workers.

It was the one man he hadn’t met who’d torn his life apart.

“Mr. Taylor.” He could appreciate Sid Taylor’s protective instincts and respected the way he sized him up.

Martha Taylor wasn’t shy, either. She handed the dish she carried to her daughter and insisted on shaking hands. “I’m Martha,” she smiled. “So tell us about yourself, Mr. O’Rourke. Where are you from? What kind of work are you doing for Jessie? Do you like antiques?”

“Ma.”

“Martha.”

Reprimanded on both fronts, she shrugged off her family’s warnings and smiled. “Pay no attention to them. You look like a healthy eater. I’ve brought some of my homemade lasagne. It’s a low-cholesterol recipe for Sid’s heart, but the whole family eats it up.”

Sam slowly withdrew his hand. “I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

“Does your wife cook for you?”

“Ma!”

“Martha.”

This time she answered their warnings. “I can’t help it.”

Jess’s cheeks bloomed with color, but Sam could only laugh. So Martha had been checking him out, too. But for entirely different reasons. “I’m not married, Mrs. Taylor.”

“But you do like antiques?”

“I’m no expert at finding them. But I like working with my hands, rebuilding and refinishing old furniture. That kind of thing.”

Sid Taylor wasn’t so easily charmed. “That’s not your regular job.” He inclined his head toward the bridge of Sam’s nose. “Your sunburn’s fresh.”

“Dad, he’s the hired help. Nothing more. I checked his references.” Jess intervened before the inquisition got fully underway. She slid in between Sam and her parents, bringing her close enough to breathe in the herbal scent of her shampoo on her hair. Sam retreated a step before his libido could get in the way of his duty again. “Sam’s just working here for a month. He’s passing through on his way to San Diego.”

Sam? What happened to Mr. O’Rourke and keeping a polite distance? Why was she defending him?

“Is that so?” Sid challenged, glancing above his daughter’s head. His brown eyes looked as doubtful as Martha’s were intrigued. “You’re a drifter?”

“Only part-time,” he joked. Sid didn’t laugh. “I’m on a leave of absence from my regular job. In Boston. I’m traveling the country, working my way when the money runs short. I ran short when my car broke down yesterday.”

“I see.”

Before Sid could follow up with any more questions, Jess turned and lifted an imploring gaze. It was a silent plea for help. “Don’t you need to finish cleaning up?” She strongly hinted that he make a hasty exit. “I already have dinner in the oven. It’ll be ready in twenty minutes, tops.” She refocused her smile and turned back to her parents. “Can you guys stay? We’ll eat the lasagne tomorrow.”

In the midst of excuses about having already eaten and being en route to baby-sit four grandsons, Sam took his leave, feeling three sets of eyes on him.

He rolled the wheelbarrow back to the garage and out of sight before he stopped to consider his immediate, heart-slamming response to the panic he’d read in Jess’s unspoken appeal. The instant she’d turned those true blues and honest despair on him, something inside him had shifted into gear. The need to help her. To protect her. To keep her secret. The desire to grant even the simple request that he leave and take a good deal of her tension with him.

Ah, hell. He was falling under her spell. One she wasn’t even trying to cast. He was getting personal, when this job should be nothing but professional. After just twenty-four hours he was thinking of Jess as a woman. A desirable woman. Jess. Not a victim. Not the answer to the mystery surrounding Kerry’s death. Certainly not as a pawn he intended to use to uncover the truth.

“Ah, hell.” He repeated the damnation out loud and tried to concentrate on the details of what he’d just witnessed.

Sid and Martha Taylor didn’t seem overly concerned that their daughter lived alone out in the country. Or that she had a man they didn’t know living on the property. Martha had even hinted at some unsubtle matchmaking. Sid had done his best to try to figure him out, yet he hadn’t sicced the dog on him or ordered him to leave or offered to stay and chaperone.

And that didn’t even begin to address Jess’s effort to give the appearance that everything was hunky-dory and under control in her life.

Sam closed the garage door and climbed the outside stairs to his apartment, letting the possibilities simmer in his mind as he headed for a quick shower. Either Sid and Martha were the most open, trusting parents he’d ever met—which, after that fatherly grilling, Sam suspected wasn’t the case.

Or her parents didn’t know she’d been raped.