Читать книгу Marriage: Classified - Linda Johnston O. - Страница 14

Jordan, glad for his rubber-soled dress shoes, loped through the dismal, damp churchyard. His gaze darted everywhere as he assessed the parklike, tree-shrouded area—and searched for Sara. He appeared to be alone out here; everyone else had been smart enough to come in out of the rain.

His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides as his mind listed those he wanted to strangle right then, in ascending order of priority: June Roehmer, Ramon Susa—and Sara.

June and Ramon were cops. Though he wasn’t their immediate superior, he had given them an order. Whether or not he could enforce it was irrelevant. They had agreed to keep an eye on Sara. He’d lost track of both of them during the reception, as well as Sara.

The pastor had said he’d seen her leave the church by herself. Where the hell was she?

By now, he was fairly certain that Sara’s memory was actually missing, that she wasn’t just putting on an act to protect herself. But why hadn’t she stayed at the reception, where there were plenty of people around? Perhaps amnesia automatically resulted in a decrease in judgment, too.

He reached the nearest gate to the graveyard—and saw a figure in a long, black raincoat, raised hood over its head, dash from the cemetery into the rear of the churchyard.

Someone just trying to quickly get out of the rain? Maybe. But Jordan’s instincts told him otherwise. He closed the gate and ran down the path toward where he had last seen the other person.

But when he got to the rear of the quaint stone church, whoever it was had disappeared. Had he—or she—gone inside?

Jordan wanted to find out, but he still hadn’t located Sara, and that was the most important thing. He had no way of knowing whether that person’s dash through the rain had anything to do with his wife.

His wife? Why was he thinking of her that way? They were married in name only. That was the plan. Casper’s death hadn’t changed it.

Still, despite the reasons they had married, she was his to protect.

And she was missing.

He hadn’t kept her father from being killed, but he would protect Sara at all costs.

So where was she?

Swallowing his frustration, he went through the rear gate to the cemetery. “Sara?” he called. “Are you out here?” If she were, the logical place for her to be was at the graveside of her family. He went down the path in that direction.

“Jordan?” He had hardly heard his name before she hurtled herself from behind a tall grave marker into his arms, knocking him slightly off balance. He caught himself—and her.

“Sara? Where the devil have you—”

“Did you see the person who attacked me?”

That stopped him from venting his anger. “Attacked you?” He grabbed her shoulders and stepped back, looking down into her face. She was out of breath, and she clung to him. There was a wildness in her hazel eyes that spoke of fear. Her dark hair was plastered in damp tendrils to her head and her smooth, flushed cheeks.

She had never looked more beautiful—and Jordan wanted to kick himself for even noticing such a thing when she was so obviously scared.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded. “Tell me what happened.”

He could see how much of an effort the small smile she attempted was. “Could we get out of the rain first?”

“Of course,” he rumbled. He put his arm around her shoulders. Her clothes were damp. He removed his own jacket, which was only slightly more dry, and put it around her. Then he led her back into the church.

THE NEXT HOUR was a jumble to Sara. More than once, she wanted to sink to her knees and sob. Mostly, though, she wanted to shout at everyone who asked her questions. Thanks to her ordeal outside and the way her assailant had badgered her, she’d had enough of answering questions to last the rest of her life.

But she knew the people here all wanted to help. To find who had attacked her—for that way, they would also have her father’s killer.

Most of the time, Jordan kept an arm protectively around her as they sat in the pastor’s private office. It was large but cluttered, with a plain, scratched desk that appeared more well-used than antique. The sofa, though, was new and comfortable, and had a matching love seat.

Sara sat on the sofa beside Jordan.

“Tell us again exactly what happened,” Jordan said. He managed to keep from yelling at her, but she saw how much of a strain it was.

Acting Chief of Police, Carroll Heumann, sat on the love seat, which seemed an incongruous location for the large, gruff man. “Why were you outside in the first place?” He made no effort to coddle her. Sara knew he was just doing his job, but she wanted to kick him in the shins and flee from the room.

She sat still, though, and willed herself to maintain her patience.

Also present were June, who sat on a small wooden child’s chair she must have found in a Sunday school classroom, and Ramon, who, with arms folded, leaned against the far window. June was uncharacteristically quiet.

In a shaky voice Sara said, “I needed to get away from the crowd.” She didn’t pause to wait for the criticisms and recriminations she knew everyone was thinking, but continued, “I thought I was being careful. There were plenty of people outside. But it started to rain, and whoever it was just grabbed me and dragged me behind a tall gravestone.”

She felt Jordan’s substantial body shift slightly, as though her very words made him fume. She swallowed a sigh of misery. She didn’t blame him; in hindsight, she realized that, though she had thought she had done what she needed to keep her sanity, it had been foolish.

But now she needed his support and understanding. And she could not be certain he would give it.

“How tall was he?” Jordan asked. At least his voice was calm.

She tried to make her shrug seem nonchalant. She didn’t want him to know how she ached inside. “Taller than me, I think. But that impression could just have been because he—or she—took me unawares and overpowered me so easily.”

“Did you hear or see anything that would allow you to recognize the person again?”

Something nudged the edges of Sara’s mind. Had there been something identifiable? Maybe…but her sorry excuse for a brain wasn’t latching onto it right then.

Any more than it was giving her the rest of the answers she needed.

This time she did sigh out loud. “No.”

“Go ahead, then,” Jordan said in a kind tone. “Tell us what you do remember.”

Sara noticed the scowl Heumann shot Jordan. Was it because he thought he should be asking the questions?

Hurriedly, so as not to foment more animosity between the two men, Sara described her latest ordeal. When she was finished, she said, “I know that doesn’t give you a lot to go on to catch the suspect. The voice was disguised, so I couldn’t even tell for sure if it was male or female. The person was definitely strong, though. I couldn’t turn around to see his identity. And…and he—or she—didn’t believe I’d lost my memory, at least not initially.” She didn’t mention that a smattering of it had come back during the crisis; she wanted to mull that over herself first. Perhaps even discuss it with Jordan. Shouldn’t her husband know that her amnesia might not be complete or permanent? Might it already be obvious? She didn’t recall how it felt to be a police dispatcher, but she was easily slipping back into using law enforcement terminology.

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” she finished.

“So am I,” Carroll Heumann said. “You shouldn’t have gone out alone like that, but since you did, it would have been a perfect opportunity to nab the perpetrator.”

“She could have been hurt,” reminded June Roehmer, her critical words to her superior tempered by a sympathetic smile toward Sara.

“Again,” added Ramon, without budging from his position near the window.

Sara noted that Jordan added nothing to that part of the conversation. Shouldn’t her husband express further concern for her safety?

He had come looking for her. He had found her. He had treated her tenderly while taking her inside, just as he had after the attack that had killed her father.

But she yearned for something more from him—a greater show of affection. Something that would make it clearer to her why they had married. That they loved each other.

“One thing, just for clarification,” Jordan said. “We should each describe where we were while Sara was being attacked.”

Heumann appeared almost apoplectic. “You surely don’t think that I—”

“I don’t think anything,” Jordan said mildly. “I just want to rule out as many suspects as possible. I was on my cell phone in an alcove. I doubt anyone saw me there, so I haven’t an alibi. No one appears wet from the rain—though the person I saw wore a hooded coat. Where were you, June?”

She had been in the ladies’ room—alone. Ramon had gone out behind the church, under an overhang, for a cigarette. Reluctantly, Heumann told them that he had been in one of the church’s Sunday school classrooms checking it out for his grandkids.

Sara realized that none of them could be ruled out as a suspect. But surely her assailant couldn’t have been one of them—could it?

Beside her, Jordan stood. “Sara, you stay here with June for a while. I have something I need to do.”

There was a grim determination on his masculine face. She wouldn’t have wanted to cross him then.

But what was he going to do? Make sure he hadn’t left any clues that would identify him as her attacker?

That was a nasty shot, Sara castigated herself. Even if there was something a little off in the way Jordan, her new husband, treated her, she had no reason to think him a suspect in her father’s death or in the attacks on her.

Except that June had told her that Jordan and her father had been arguing….

No, whatever Jordan was up to, she could be certain it would be in her best interests.

She lifted her face up to him for a kiss. Wasn’t that what new brides did?

He blinked in what appeared to be surprise and uncertainty before he caught himself and bent toward her. His lips were cool, and their contact with hers brief. Unsatisfying.

“See you later,” he said over his shoulder as he strode out of the room.

Bewildered and hurt, Sara nevertheless noticed the expressions on the faces of the others as they stared after Jordan. Ramon’s mouth quirked slightly in an amused smile that did not erase the uneasiness in his eyes.

June appeared perturbed, but her eyes seemed glued to Jordan’s compact butt, hugged by his dress trousers. A pang of something that could have been jealousy caromed through Sara. That was her husband’s behind that June so obviously admired.

But there was nothing at all appreciative of Jordan Dawes in Carroll Heumann’s snide grimace.

“I’M SORRY I left you with that cheery crowd,” Jordan said to Sara a while later. He shot an ironic glance toward her from the driver’s seat of his white Mustang. The arch expression went wonderfully with Jordan’s masculine features, turning them roguish and utterly appealing.

No wonder Sara had fallen in love with him…hadn’t she?

She was beginning to believe so, more and more. But if she could now remember a little of her police training, why couldn’t she recall how she felt about her brand-new husband?

Jordan continued, “I knew Heumann had ordered an investigation of what happened to you, but I wanted to start one of my own.”

“Did you learn anything?” Sara asked.

“Only that our perpetrator is pretty damned cunning. I believe I spoke with everyone at the funeral, though briefly. Most had milled around, talking to one another, speculating on who killed your father. Though only one person planned it that way, they generally provided great alibis for one another. No one paid a lot of attention as to those who might have wandered off by themselves.”

Sara felt shocked. “You’re really pushing it, aren’t you? You weren’t just trying to rule out suspects before. You really think that one of my father’s friends attacked me—someone on the Santa Gregoria force?”

Jordan’s tone was gentle as he answered, though he did not move his eyes from the road in front of them. “Yes, Sara, I do.”

“But—”

“We’ll talk about it one day when you’re stronger. For now, take a look in front of us. Does this street seem familiar?”

She peered through the windshield toward a wide avenue lined on both sides with pleasant-looking stucco houses, most with at least some expanse of green lawn. There were eucalyptus trees and a few oaks, and cars of fairly current vintages sat by the curbs or in driveways. It seemed a pretty neighborhood, welcoming, a nice enough place to live. But did anything look familiar? She strained her memory and came up with…nothing.

“Not really. Is it supposed to?”

Jordan nodded, then pulled the car to the curb and looked toward her. A thatch of his light brown hair had slipped from where he had brushed it back from his face to curl winsomely over his broad forehead. He had deposited his jacket and tie onto the back seat, and his white shirt was open at the neck, revealing a hint of chest hair a few shades darker than that on his head. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll remember everything, one of these days.”

It would have been a perfect opportunity to tell Jordan about how she had fought off her attacker earlier—how her training had come back to her.

But she didn’t tell him. Not yet.

Though her mind had helped her in a crisis, the knowledge of a few self-defense techniques seemed like such a minor matter, compared with how she felt about the man beside her.

She wanted to be able to fling herself into his arms and tell him she remembered how they had met. How they had fallen in love. What their wedding had been like.

Until those memories had returned, nothing else was important.

He had come around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. He helped her out.

She glanced toward the house before them. It was a pretty dwelling, a two-story gray stucco with white trim at the doors and windows, small white wrought-iron balconies outside the two upstairs windows, and a riot of flowers in beds on either side of the walkway to the front porch.

A tiny pang of recollection seemed to jolt Sara. “It does look familiar!” she exclaimed. She turned excitedly toward Jordan, unconsciously holding out her hands. He took them as she said, “Jordan, tell me about the house. Did we pick it out together before we got married?”

The pleased expression seemed to vanish from his face, and his deep blue eyes grew fathomless once more. “No, Sara.” His voice was soft, as though he were talking with a child. Didn’t he understand that only made her feel worse? “It’s your house. You lived here with your father. Stu grew up here, too. Now it’ll belong to you.”