Читать книгу Change of Life - Leigh Riker, Leigh Riker - Страница 10

D etective Calvin Raji Caine had a hangover.

On this hot September morning, it pounded behind his eyes and through his fogged brain. Last night’s six-pack roiled in his belly, which he fully deserved, but if anyone spoke too loud in the next few hours, he wouldn’t pull his punches.

Caine wasn’t proud of what he called his therapeutic drinking, which had started after his wife, Annie’s, death, but occasions like that three years ago, and at the moment this one, tended to throw off his good intentions. Right now, his job wasn’t helping him to reform.

“Guess I picked the wrong line of work,” he said, but it was all he knew.

Caine wound his way up the long, paved drive to the Whitehouse address.

Good Lord.

Did people really live this way? He knew they did. In his job Caine saw all kinds of homes: grand estates, middle-class brick ranch houses, single-and double-wide trailers. The small bungalow he’d shared with Annie popped into his mind as well. Neat and tidy, it had smelled of good food and furniture polish and most of all, love, when she was still alive. He hated going home now.

Solitary confinement, Caine called his place, which echoed with a sense of emptiness now that she was gone. He’d never planned on living there alone, or being a bachelor again. Well, alone except for Annie’s cat. Caine was the orange tabby’s sole companion now, just as the tomcat was his. He guessed they suited each other, one of them as irascible as the other. Once, he supposed, they’d both been normal guys.

What the hell. He might as well question Geneva Whitehouse about some petty burglary she’d reported earlier that morning or he’d start to feel tempted to go find a little hair of the dog and call a beer or two his lunch—not that Caine had ever done any drinking on the job. He didn’t expect the interview to amount to anything. Probably the Whitehouse maid had lifted an item or two, giving herself a nice five-finger bonus.

He rang the bell and heard discreet chimes from within.

The woman who answered would have sucked the breath from an ordinary man, one who still had red blood flowing through his veins. Reed-slim but full-breasted, Geneva Whitehouse wasn’t tall, yet she carried herself like a supermodel. An ash blonde with wide blue eyes, she wore a gold wedding ring on her hand next to a flashy diamond set in platinum that must weigh four carats.

“Ms. Whitehouse. Calvin Caine.” He flashed his badge. “I’m the investigator assigned to your case. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

With the introduction he handed her his card. As she studied it, the striking blue of her eyes went flat, like an unpolished stone, and the sparkle disappeared except from her ring.

“Please come in.”

Caine felt the back of his neck crawl. Right away his head began to throb again and he felt lost. The house was huge, in all ways. Big entry hall, big rooms, big ceilings, big air-conditioning system if the chill was anything to judge by. He thought of his own decrepit bedroom unit, cranking out stale air all night, not helping him to sleep. He kept meaning to replace it. Too bad he didn’t have the inclination to change the AC, his clothes, whatever.

In the living room she studied him. “Would you like a drink? Soda, coffee, something stronger?”

He must look as if he needed one. The temptation he’d suppressed rocked him back on his heels. “No, thanks. I’m on duty. I won’t take much of your time.”

Geneva Whitehouse perched on the arm of a very expensive-looking sofa. She invited him to sit down, but Caine stayed on his feet. He took out his notebook and clicked open his pen.

“The missing vase,” he said, prompting her to begin.

“Yes, of course. I noticed it was gone this morning when I got up,” she said. “It’s quite valuable, although not of museum quality.” She named a figure that widened Caine’s eyes anyway. “My husband had it custom-made for me from his own design.” She blinked. “As you might guess, it has even greater sentimental value.” She worried her bottom lip. “Do you think you can get it back?”

“We’ll try.” He scribbled on his pad. “When did you last see this vase?”

With a longing look toward the hall, she indicated the now-empty space in the curio cabinet, a look that reminded Caine of himself at home in his empty house. “Yesterday afternoon, I think, just before five,” she said.

Caine asked the usual questions about anyone who had access to the house or grounds, anyone who might know the layout and her daily routine. In his experience, most people followed the same schedule, in the same order, each day without any significant deviation. She mentioned the gardener, her cleaning service, the pool boy. “But they haven’t been here as recently as—” Her gaze popped open even more. “Oh, goodness. I’ve been so upset, I almost forgot. I’ve been interviewing interior designers. We’re going to have some work done on the house—” needlessly, Caine thought, but it was her money, or her husband’s “—and two women were here yesterday. One of them admired that particular vase. It does stand out,” she added.

Caine needed specifics.

“Nora Pride,” she murmured, sounding reluctant to say the name. “Her firm is Nine Lives, Inc. in Destin.”

Sounded more like a pet store to Caine. She gave him the other woman’s name, Starr Mulligan of Superior Interiors, and Caine rolled his eyes. Geneva Whitehouse didn’t see him because she had glanced away, but when her gaze met his again, his cop instincts began to hum. Caine saw doubt in her eyes. She didn’t know whether to tell him something.

“Anything you can give me, Ms. Whitehouse, will be a help. Sometimes the smallest detail can sound a bell.”

She fidgeted with her ring. “Something else does bother me, Detective Caine. I’d be less than a good citizen—and not very helpful to you—if I didn’t tell you that when they were here, Starr and Nora argued.”

Geneva Whitehouse gnawed on her lip again. It was a great lip, full and plump and ripe, but Caine reminded himself that he didn’t have much interest in women these days. His work had become his life. And besides, she was married. Caine liked to think he was a principled man.

“I wasn’t in perfect earshot,” she continued, bringing him back to the reason for his visit. “While I was looking at the shelves and cabinets in the kitchen, Nora took Starr aside. I could hear the buzz of their voices, then they rose before Nora’s dropped a little…” She flushed, prettily.

“Go on.”

Geneva Whitehouse hesitated. “Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. The vase was here when they left and later, I think, when I left home myself. I was supposed to meet my husband for dinner, but he was detained at work so I ended up eating alone in the restaurant.” She all but wrung her hands, looking more unhappy than her husband’s necessary lapse seemed to warrant. “I don’t see how anyone could have gotten into the house while I was gone. We have an alarm system and it’s always monitored. Earl insisted on it as soon as we were married.”

And she had become a blue blood by law, Caine thought. He made a little “hmm” of encouragement. This was Geneva Whitehouse’s first marriage, he knew, but it was her spouse’s third trip around the matrimonial track, and each time he had downsized in terms of his bride’s age. Earl Whitehouse was a prominent local builder and Royal Palms was his project.

Talk about career development. Without ever holding a job, Geneva Whitehouse had become an instant multimillionaire.

In the next breath she knocked him flat again.

“I hate to say anything against Nora, really. But I saw how determined she was to get my business.” Geneva Whitehouse reported Starr Mulligan’s similar statement, then stopped.

Caine sighed to himself. Getting a witness to talk could be as hard as bathing Annie’s cat. For another moment she couldn’t go on. Or at least that’s how it appeared to Caine, who felt his anticipation rising with every empty second.

She tried again. “Nora said—”

His tone was gentle yet insistent. “Yes, Ms. Whitehouse?”

“The burglary here is one thing and I’m heartbroken over my vase. But, well, I couldn’t help but overhear. Detective Caine, Nora threatened someone…with murder.”

Nora stared down at the just-received wedding invitation on her desk and thought of violence. And here she’d imagined she had put her past—her marriage—behind her at last. She reread the formal words.

Mr. and Mrs. William Baker

Request the honour of your presence

At the marriage of their daughter

Heather

to

Wilson Pride

The creamy vellum sheet was decidedly stubborn, if an inanimate object had any such quality, or it would have disappeared by now, zapped by Nora’s fervent wish that she hadn’t been included in the guest list. Attend her ex-husband’s wedding? Nora shuddered, but the words on the invitation hadn’t altered, either. She wished she could simply ignore them and the troublesome date that she had tried, only a few months ago, to make sure would never happen.

She wasn’t proud of herself for attempting to sabotage Wilson’s newest “love of my life,” and now it seemed she had definitely failed.

Nora leaned around her desk to catch Daisy’s eye. The golden retriever was lying in her usual spot between her and the door to her office. Several months ago, taking into account her lost clients, Nora had been forced to lay off her receptionist, and Daisy had kindly offered to work for free. Three times a week she kept Nora company at work, while supposedly discouraging intruders; in return, Nora dispensed extra doggie treats and kept a Chinese porcelain bowl of cold water on hand in lieu of a salary.

“Well, Daisy,” she said, “what do you think of Wilson and his bride? It’s a good thing he didn’t ask you to be in the wedding. I would never have forgiven him for that. But does he really think I want to—”

Nora heard the outer door open.

Apparently her ears were better than Daisy’s. The dog hadn’t gazed at Nora for more than a second before dropping her head again onto her paws, letting her floppy ears fall over her eyes, and going back to sleep. Now she didn’t move—until Nora’s visitor appeared in her office doorway. Detective Caine, apparently. The policeman had called to say he was dropping by.

The Walking Wounded, was Nora’s first surprised thought.

And, for some unknown reason she might never understand, all of the blood drained from her head straight down to her Jimmy Choo pumps. For a second, she swayed in her ergonomic desk chair.

Quickly, even in her distress, she took inventory of the detective. His rumpled black Dockers, his herringbone jacket, his shirt and tie were good quality and well-tailored but looked uncared for, like the man himself, it seemed. His craggy, hard-jawed face, shadowed by a late afternoon stubble, had seen too much living, Nora felt sure, with a sharp, masculine nose and shrewd yet puppy dog-sad dark eyes. His head of thick, dark hair, with just a hint of distinguished gray at the temples, clearly needed a stylist.

Yet he drew her gaze again. He reminded Nora of herself right after she had left Wilson and unwillingly struck out on her own, feeling ironically abandoned. She was feeling that now after getting the invitation to his wedding while she was still single and likely to stay that way.

Nora, the saver of other lost souls ever since her divorce, felt almost sorry for Caine. So did Daisy, apparently.

The retriever’s eyes opened, then brightened, and her plumy tail began to flap in greeting against the carpet. So much for Daisy’s new career as Nora’s quasi-secretary and protector. The detective smiled a little, then bent down to give Daisy a good scratch behind the ears.

“Ms. Pride?” he prompted.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m Nora Pride.”

“Nice dog.”

Daisy rolled over for an expert tummy rub, gazing at Calvin Caine like an adoring strumpet. “She certainly seems to like you.”

Nora smoothed her limp skirt, wishing she’d had time to powder the shine from her nose. She reminded herself that he was a cop and not to underestimate him, though it was clear he liked animals, usually a plus in Nora’s book. Why did he want to talk to her? He hadn’t said, but Nora’s heart did a three-sixty roll. She had a stack of unpaid parking tickets stashed in the glove compartment of her car. Had the department finally tracked her down? Why send a detective?

He gave the surroundings a cursory yet professional assessment: Nora’s glass-topped desk, the wall of shelves behind it neatly sprinkled with books, a tidy stack of interior design journals and the latest issue of Architectural Digest. Then his gaze returned to Nora. He looked her up, then down.

“I have a few questions,” he said.

When he stood, Nora inspected his badge, tucked his card away without looking at it and then gave him another careful scrutiny like the one he’d given her. He had a decent build, good shoulders and a straight spine, if not of the same height and breadth as Heath Moran, who still hadn’t bothered to answer her numerous telephone calls.

Hugh Jackman, she decided of Caine. A more mature Hugh Jackman.

Then he murmured, “Geneva Whitehouse.”

Geneva? Almost before Nora could take in the name, the questions came at her like bullets. This wasn’t about parking tickets. When had Nora left Geneva’s house yesterday? Who could vouch for her whereabouts last night?

“I was home, alone.” Perversely, considering the situation, Nora wished he would smile. She’d like to see what he looked like then, because she suspected he didn’t smile often. Or maybe she was trying to divert herself from her obsessive study of the wedding invitation a few minutes ago—that is, until he brought up Starr. And the apparently missing vase.

“Yes,” Nora admitted, “I did see Starr yesterday.”

He had picked up on her cool tone. “You’re not friends.”

“I didn’t say that. We’re, well, more than acquaintances. We’re competitors in interior design.” Oh, you bet. Nora had barely been out the door yesterday before Geneva Whitehouse called to inform her that she’d chosen Starr to do the work on her home. The sudden decision had wounded Nora, but she tried not to show it. “Ours is a small world, Detective Caine. One can’t afford to make enemies.”

“Would you call Ms. Mulligan an enemy?”

Nora felt her cheeks heat. Before she knew it, they were as hot as a pancake griddle, and she could sense the blood rushing through her veins, centering in her chest and making her feel breathless. Nora fought the strong urge to fan herself with Wilson’s invitation. Her skin must look as red as fire. Dear God, she was having another of those flushes, worse than before. Caine’s fault. That alone was enough to make her dislike him.

“Starr and I may have had words a time or two, bless her heart. She doesn’t have the best…disposition. But we both know where our bread is buttered.” She had formed a small lie, hoping to tamp down the fiery blush spreading across her skin, hoping to defuse his keen attention. “If you must know, yes, we sometimes quarrel.” A new insight struck her. “I suppose it’s almost a hobby for us.”

Her heart thundered like a cannon during a twenty-one-gun salute at Arlington Cemetery. Nora looked from him to Daisy, who was now curled at Caine’s feet as if she belonged to him rather than Nora. Surely he didn’t think…

“Do I look like a common thief to you?” she asked.

Nora drove home in a blue funk, her fingers trembling on the steering wheel of her convertible. She knew she hadn’t conducted herself well in the interview with Detective Caine. Still, she wasn’t behind bars tonight for something she hadn’t done. Look on the bright side.

Daisy certainly did. She hadn’t stopped smiling since Caine walked into the office, not even when Nora worked late then dropped her off at the vet’s on the way home. Daisy didn’t know it, but she was staying overnight at the clinic to get her teeth cleaned.

Alone in the car for the rest of the ride, Nora put down the top and let the warm, sultry Gulf breeze blow through her hair. Overhead the sky had darkened to a velvety blue, and she glimpsed a few stars trying to come out.

She was putting her key into the door of the home she’d worked so hard to pay for as a single woman—an honest woman—when a hard hand covered her softer one. Her pulse jerked in alarm. She hadn’t recovered from Caine’s interrogation, and Nora half expected another attack right at her door.

Then she smelled him, that recently familiar scent of man and the pricey cologne she had given him for his birthday. Instead of a real assault, to her relief this was some fantasy come to life in her doorway.

A hoarse masculine growl threatened to melt the skin at the nape of her neck. There was no “Your money or your life” forthcoming, but every square inch of Nora’s flesh quivered.

He didn’t bother with talk. He didn’t have to.

Heath Moran seemed fully involved in a replay of that scene from the 1969 film Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The young Robert Redford. Katharine Ross. A classic now. Like Nora.

Before she could breathe again, he gently nudged her inside and shut them both into the cool darkness of her entryway. He pushed her up against the closed panel of the door and set his delicious, wicked mouth on hers, and she went limp.

“Why the hell do you keep torturing me like this?” Heath mumbled, his mouth pressed to the cleavage above the top button of her silk blouse. “Three flipping weeks without a word from you. Then I get that desperate-sounding tone on my answering machine. The Steel Magnolia in full meltdown mode. You’re enough to drive a man out of his freaking, already-insane mind.”

“Heath—”

Nora didn’t get the chance to continue. Or explain, as if she could. Clearly, he was a man bent upon a mission of the utmost importance. Critical. Now.

Within the next heartbeat, Nora agreed with him.

She felt his hard body against hers, the press of his already-stiff penis against her through the coarse fabric of his cargo shorts. He would be out of them in the next five seconds if she didn’t take control.

“You didn’t answer my call.”

“I’m answering it now.” She barely understood his muttering. “I was at work last night. Or did you already forget that Thursdays and Fridays I’m on the schedule?” Before she could push him away, his mouth dipped lower and he had unbuttoned her sufficiently to slip his hand inside her blouse. The heat of his palm on her breast, his fingers snaking inside her bra, felt like heaven. His breath came in pants. “The club’s…short-handed right now. One of the trainers…quit and I’m working…more hours.”

“Some excuse. And your cell phone battery died? I called both numbers.”

“Sounded important.” He nuzzled her half-exposed breast. “So is this.”

Nora fought not to whimper.

She didn’t think she could resist much longer. When she moaned, Heath smiled against her other breast.

“You want it. You know you do. You want me.”

“You do have…your skills. And here I thought—” she couldn’t help the movement of her own body “—that you were nothing more than a sadistic personal trainer. I’m still hurting,” she murmured, trying to be rational. “Those last pull-ups were murder.”

“A month ago? And you’re still sore? I doubt it.” Heath laughed a little, but he sounded winded. “Through tormenting me, then? Because if you are, we can get down to business here.”

Heath was forty-two and a stud muffin, as Savannah might say, the likes of which Nora had never known up close and personal until a few months ago. That is, until she’d finally rediscovered her common sense. She’d already made one mistake with Wilson, as today’s announcement reminded her. When compared to Wilson’s more cerebral, poetic nature, Heath might be embarrassingly physical, more of this earth with his sandy brown hair and eyes the color of topaz, and he was sensible to the core, but he was still a man. And men dumped her, or forced her to dump them, no matter what they promised.

“I can’t, Heath.” She pulled back, smoothed her skirt and rebuttoned her blouse. Her whole body felt sensitized as she glanced at his still-dazed face. “This is ridiculous. I’m—”

His head jerked up. “If you’d only get over this cockamamy theory that I’m too young for you, Nora, we could have some fun. Again.”

“We’re really not compatible.” Except in bed. She couldn’t deny that. What was she waiting for?

Heath’s voice stopped her. “I still scare you, don’t I?”

Nora couldn’t disagree. “Old habits—like Wilson—are hard to break.” And then, there was Detective Caine with his questions and his sorrowful eyes, the inspiration for yet another, different blast of heat. This time Nora couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened.

Heath ran a hand through his thick sandy hair. He was obviously frustrated. “I’m not a habit. You’ve been divorced for over two decades. Isn’t it time to be happy again? With someone else? Me, for instance.”

She had to turn away not to jump his bones. He wasn’t just a pretty-boy face, a pack of muscles and six-pack abs. It wouldn’t be fair to him. Or to her.

He followed her into the living room, where Nora switched on the lamps so as not to leave them in the seductive darkness that had fallen.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” she admitted.

Their brief affair, a first for Nora, had taught her a few things. She wasn’t cut out for hot sex without strings. She also wasn’t above enjoying it.

That thought, at least, was comforting. Heath’s tone was not.

“Look, I’ve been a good boy. I left you alone for weeks. Believe me, that wasn’t easy. Then all of a sudden you call me, but I can’t figure out why. I stew about that for a couple of days, but when I get here—against my better judgment—you light up like one of these lamps. Then just when things start looking good, and I feel human again, you go into some deep freeze. What the hell happened, Nora?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Forget that. What? Your future son-in-law disapproves of us? That doesn’t sound like Johnny, or Savannah. She introduced us, for God’s sake.”

Nora took a deep breath. “She’s pregnant.”

When she turned from lighting the last lamp, Heath was staring at her.

“Pregnant. And that means…”

“I’m going to be a…you know.” Nora turned away.

“Well, that’s it, then.” If Heath slammed the door for good this time, she couldn’t blame him, but she wouldn’t watch him leave. Instead, he stalked her across the room. “There’s no use pretending that it’s not all over now,” he murmured too close behind her. “A grandmother.”

Her throat had closed. “That’s a good thing, but…” She couldn’t go on.

“Jeez, Nora.” Heath turned her into his arms. He did have the smoothest moves. She never saw them coming. “Do you think that matters to me?”

A slight thrill ran through her. “It matters to me.”

“So why did you call me, then?”

“I wanted…” She didn’t know.

“Comfort?”

“Maybe. A little.” A lot. A whole cartload of the stuff. “I needed…”

“Reassurance?”

He had gone from bemused bewilderment to curiosity. Now she heard irritation. She might as well finish this off.

“And I had a…hot flash.” She didn’t quite choke on the word this time.

Neither did Heath. “Well, of course you did. You’ll turn fifty next week.”

I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. Please don’t make me.

She felt petty, immature, but couldn’t stop herself. “Then I came home the other night and Johnny was here with Savannah. They told me about the baby. Then yesterday Starr Mulligan—”

“That witch?”

But even that wasn’t all. Nora told him about her latest quarrel with Starr, but couldn’t bring herself to say she was being accused of a crime. Who on earth could have taken Geneva’s vase? And she couldn’t tell Heath about Wilson’s marriage.

He raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like you’ve had a weird couple of days.”

“Well, yes, and if you include Leonard Hackett—” To her absolute horror, she gulped back a sob. Nora whirled away.

Heath stopped her. His hard, sinewy arms wrapped tighter around her more slender frame. She felt Heath’s chin come to rest on the top of her head. He rocked her lightly back and forth, letting her feel that he still wanted her.

“I have a few good ideas to make you feel better.” His sexy tone almost undid her. “Want to hear them? It’s a free offer,” he said in a tempting voice. “Better than a sweaty workout at the club.”

Nora gave him a shaky smile.

“My life is changing too fast,” she whispered.

But Heath still had her in his arms. He felt strong and good and he wasn’t laughing at her. He just held her.

And, despite knowing that no good could come of it, Nora let him.

In that instant she felt vanquished yet determined, like a modern-day Scarlett O’Hara.

Tomorrow, as Scarlett had claimed, would be a better day.

If it wasn’t, Nora knew exactly what to do about Caine.

She would just have to hire her own Dream Team.