Читать книгу Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson - Страница 11

Detective Reed Henderson didn’t like being played for a fool, and in this case, the one involving Marquise or whatever the hell she wanted to be called, he was certain that someone was out to dupe him.

He picked at his teeth with his thumbnail, reached into his top desk drawer for his cigarettes, and found, instead, a pack of nicotine gum. He hated the stuff but wadded a piece into his mouth and thought it a damn poor substitute for a Camel straight.

A picture of Mary Theresa Reilly Walker Gillette aka Marquise was pinned over his desk. She was a looker, no doubt about it. Model slim with thick red-brown hair, eyes as green as jade, straight nose and perfect teeth surrounded by lips that were stretched into a smile that would light up any man’s day, she carried herself with the confidence of a truly beautiful woman who knew and calculated her effect on every man who happened to cross her path. Looking into the camera as if intent on seducing the man behind the lens, she exuded a sexual radiance that even he, after nearly twenty years on the force and the cynicism that came with the duty, recognized.

Marquise had star quality. Few men would be able to resist her.

Married twice, with a string of lovers, she didn’t seem particularly stable in her love life, but then, who could blame her? Men would’ve been salivating, their tongues dragging out of their mouths, if she so much as gave them a wink or a smile. Her first husband was a cowboy—a loner who had a temper that had put one man in the hospital. That was years ago, of course, when Thane Walker was barely sixteen, but Henderson believed that a man didn’t change. Once a hothead, always one. In years past, it seemed, Walker was forever just one step in front of the law.

Then there was the second man to make the mistake of marrying Marquise—an older guy who liked his women young and flashy, but had trouble keeping this one under his thumb. Mary Theresa had become the third Mrs. Syd Gillette for a period of less than a year. He’d moved on, been married and divorced since. It was a wonder the guy still had any money.

Her last boyfriend was ten years younger than she, a model with long, curly hair and a brooding, dark look that women seemed to find sexy. As far as Henderson was concerned, Wade Pomeranian was a spoiled pain in the butt.

So what had happened to her? The question rattled around in his head like rocks in a hubcap—irritating and damned hard to dislodge. Was she dead? Murdered? Had she committed suicide? Had she just taken off on a lark? Or was this all just a publicity stunt, the actions of a desperate woman whose star, albeit not in the caliber of a Hollywood celebrity, had once flared bright but now had begun to fade?

“Hell if I know,” he admitted, leaning back in his desk chair until it groaned in protest. He fingered his old baseball, the one that had been signed by Sandy Koufax when Henderson was just a kid, then gave it a toss. It arced perfectly one inch below the fluorescent lights before dropping into his open, waiting fingers.

What the hell had happened to Marquise? The press was all over the case. As she was the cohost of Denver AM and hadn’t shown up on the set, the producer of the show had gotten nervous, checked around, and eventually called someone she knew on the force.

In the intervening days Henderson had talked to most of the people associated with Ms. Gillette. He didn’t much like any one of them. Including her surly first husband. That guy was hiding something. Henderson could feel it in his bones. He intended to find out what it was; he just needed a little more time.

He’d put out a nationwide APB on Marquise, with her description as well as that of her Jeep Wrangler and the license plate of the vehicle. He’d also filed a missing-person report through the National Crime Information Center via the FBI. Sooner or later, she’d show up—dead or alive, he couldn’t begin to guess. An enigma, that one. But people didn’t usually fall off the face of the earth.

Then again, years ago, when he was still at the academy, he’d made a bet that Jimmy Hoffa would eventually turn up. That five bucks was history; he’d be damned if the same thing happened anywhere near his jurisdiction.

The door to his office swung open and Hannah Wilkins poked her head inside. Though it was the weekend, she, too, was working. “No news on the whereabouts of Thane Walker?” she asked, eyeing him with disapproval as he flipped the baseball toward the ceiling again. He knew she objected to his lack of reverence when it came to things of value. Hell, everyone did. But he didn’t believe in gilded cages, and, because of it, he supposed, he’d lost Karen and the kids.

“Nope. Walker seems to have taken a hike. Along with his ex-wife.” He caught the ball, careful to avoid his fingers’ touching Sandy’s signature, which was still intact, then gave it another toss toward the ceiling. “You talk to anyone at his ranch in Wyoming?”

“Nope. No one answered.” She slid into the room and leaned against the doorframe. Folding her arms over her chest, stretching the blue wool of her jacket, she added, “But I called his other place—the spread in California. Talked to a manager there. No one knows what happened to him.”

“Convenient.”

“Very.”

“Keep looking.”

“I will.” She nodded, her short blond hair moving a bit, brushing her collar. “They both can’t be lost.”

“You wouldn’t think so.”

“And he claimed he didn’t leave with her. Remember you questioned him yourself the day that she was reported missing.”

“I remember. He’d had a fight with her.”

“He wasn’t the only one.”

“But he was the last. Good ol’ Marquise was on a tear last week, wasn’t she?” he muttered, recalling that she’d had it out with the cohost of her morning program and her latest boyfriend as well as her first husband. And those were only the ones he knew about.

“Walker’s not on the up and up.” Henderson frowned and replaced the baseball in its stand, a small metal replica of a catcher’s glove that once had been painted shiny gold, but now showed dull black where the paint had chipped away. Narrowing his eyes on the skyline of the city, visible through a thick, plate-glass window, he scratched with one finger at the itchy stubble beginning to shadow his jaw. “I don’t like the guy.”

“This isn’t exactly a news flash,” Hannah remarked with that irritating half-smile of hers. “You don’t like anyone.”

With good reason, he thought. Most people weren’t to be trusted. Especially ex-husbands with personal axes to grind.

“Looks like your lucky day,” Maggie said as she walked into Becca’s room and lifted the shades of her windows. Sunlight danced over the patches of snow that clung to the ground, and the room was suddenly awash with bright morning light. But as Maggie looked out the window, she saw the storm clouds gathering in the distance, gray and threatening, promising more snow than had been left in the middle of the night.

Becca, groaning, rolled over in bed, and the ice bag, a Ziploc plastic container now filled with water, tumbled to the floor. Fortunately, it didn’t burst open. “What’s so lucky about it?”

“You’re flying to California.” Maggie picked up the bag.

Becca’s eyes sprang open. She pushed herself into a sitting position. “What happened?” she asked suspiciously as she rubbed her eyes and yawned.

“I decided you were right. I have to go to Denver.” Maggie sighed and sat on the window ledge as the bright morning began to fade and the storm clouds encroached. “I don’t know what happened to Mary Theresa,” she admitted, staring at the clear sagging bag of water that had once been ice. “And I’m the only family she has left, so I’m going to Denver.”

“Cool.” Becca didn’t seem too worried about her missing aunt.

“Now, let’s look at that ankle of yours.” She walked to the bed and Becca willingly showed off her bruised and swollen foot. Gingerly, Maggie ran a finger over her daughter’s skin. Becca didn’t wince.

“It’s better.”

“It is?”

“Much,” Becca assured her. It seemed as if the swelling had, indeed, gone down, though the area around Becca’s ankle had turned an even uglier shade of green-blue this morning and the discoloration had spread, running down to the back of her heel.

“If you say so.” She forced a smile as she straightened, then walked to the bathroom, where she dumped the contents of the bag into the sink and tossed the used plastic into a wastebasket. “This isn’t the greatest time for you to visit Connie and Jim,” she said, returning to Becca’s room. It looked as if the proverbial cyclone had hit with the clothes, towels, books, and magazines scattered helter-skelter on the floor and every other available surface.

“Sure it is.” Becca wasn’t going to relinquish her mother’s promise. “You can’t change your mind.”

“I won’t.” Maggie hated leaving Becca while the kid was still struggling with crutches. Not that she had much choice in the matter, considering the circumstances. “So, I’ve already called Connie, and the airlines, and your teacher at home,” Maggie said, updating her daughter and ignoring her unease at leaving Becca with Dean’s relatives, who sometimes seemed more interested in the family money than they were in their own daughter. “We’ll pick up your assignments from school on the way to Boise, and you’ll fly from there to L.A. Connie will meet you at the airport. She told me Jenny is beside herself. She can’t wait for you to get there.” Forcing a smile she didn’t feel, Maggie opened the closet and, standing on her tiptoes, dragged down an athletic bag that was precariously balanced on the top shelf. “I guess we’d better both get packed.”

Becca threw back the covers and, using one crutch, hobbled to her dresser. “This is so great,” she said, her eyes bright, any groggy little hint of sleep long vanished from her eyes. “I mean, I’m worried about Marquise and all, but nothing’s really wrong with her. She’s just missing. Like before. She’ll turn up, don’t ya think?”

“Sure.” No reason to dampen Becca’s suddenly bright spirits, though Maggie wasn’t certain of anything. True, Mary Theresa was flighty and had, over an argument with her agent, a fight with a lover, or a battle with the production company of the few movies she’d acted in, been known to walk off the set, take off for a few days, only to return refreshed and ready to do battle. Since working in Denver, Mary Theresa hadn’t been much happier, though Maggie hadn’t heard of her temper tantrums and never before had Maggie received an anguished, silent call from her sister. More to the point, never before had Thane Walker shown up on her doorstep.

This time was different.

“If you need any help in the shower, just let me know,” Maggie said. “Breakfast’ll be on the table in fifteen.”

”’Kay,” Becca mumbled, but Maggie doubted if the information registered in her daughter’s brain as she was into sorting through T-shirts, shorts, and jeans—warm weather wear for Southern California.

Maggie paused at the door. “Pack enough for a week.”

Becca’s head snapped around in her mother’s direction. “A week?” She couldn’t hide the delight in her eyes. “Really?”

“I don’t know. But you know my motto—better safe than—”

”‘Sorry,’ yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it before.” Rolling her eyes expressively, Becca once again dug through her underwear drawer.

Maggie had already showered, dressed, and packed. Her suitcase, laptop computer, briefcase and oversize purse were piled near the front door. She’d listened to the weather service and, upon hearing that the area was in for an early snowstorm, thrown her ski jacket, gloves, and hat onto the growing pile.

The coffee had perked, and she popped two waffles into the toaster. Nothing fancy this morning. Just the basics. She heard the creak of the water pipes as Becca turned on the faucet and a few seconds later Becca’s off-key singing floated down the hallway over the rush of water as she showered.

How long had it been since Becca had sung spontaneously? How long had it been since she’d been truly lighthearted and happy? It seemed like ages. Stop it, Maggie warned herself. No good comes of second-guessing yourself.

The waffles popped up, and Barkley, ever vigilant under the table, lifted his head and cocked an ear. He let out a low, warning “woof” about the same time as Maggie heard the sound of a truck’s engine rumble up the drive.

Thane.

Her heart knocked in a stupid cadence as she spied his old Ford nose through the trees. Get a grip, McCrae, she told herself as she watched him stretch out of the cab, his legs seeming even longer than she remembered. He was wearing reflective aviator sunglasses and a stern expression that Maggie was certain would sour milk. He’s just a man. Nothing more. So what if he lied and betrayed you? So what if he got involved with your prettier sister, so what if he married her and now is wanted for questioning in her disappearance?

She swallowed hard.

This was all so damned bizarre. And scary.

Barkley began making a racket in earnest.

“Shh! Barkley, hush!”

Careful not to burn herself, she plucked the waffles from the toaster and dropped them onto a plate about the time she heard the pipes groan again as Becca turned off the water.

Thane rapped loudly on the front door.

“It’s open,” she called over Barkley’s disgruntled growls.

“Hey, don’t you remember me?” Thane stepped into the cabin, and the stupid dog’s rear end went into immediate motion. His apprehensive growls turned into an embarrassed snort. “I thought so.” Thane paused to rub Barkley behind his good ear.

“Looks like you won someone over,” she said.

“It’s a start.” He squatted, patting Barkley’s graying head, then spied the suitcases.

Maggie’s stomach tightened as he scrutinized her. “You decided to come back to Denver with me?”

“Yep.” She called down the hallway, “Becca—breakfast.”

“Coming.”

With a curious lift of his eyebrows Thane straightened and sauntered into the kitchen area. “What changed your mind?”

“Not you. Excuse me.” She moved around him and opened the refrigerator door.

“Talk to the police again?”

“What? No.” Retrieving a carton of orange juice she avoided touching him, found a glass in the cupboard, and poured. “You want some?”

“Nah. Just coffee.”

“Help yourself.” The phone rang loudly, and she picked up the receiver as she managed to set the glass of juice on the old table. Becca, wearing cutoff overalls and a T-shirt, limped with one crutch into the room, slanted a wary glance at Thane, then slid into her seat. “Hello?” Maggie said into the mouthpiece as Thane poured coffee and she reached around him to find a sticky bottle of syrup on the second shelf of the pantry.

“Maggie? Charlie here. Emma said you called, asked us to take care of the stock while you’re gone.” Charlie and Emma Sandquist lived on the next ranch over. Maggie had spoken to Emma this morning while her husband was out feeding his cattle.

“Where’s the butter?” Becca asked, and Maggie pointed to the counter. Thane handed the dish with a half-used cube to Becca, and she regarded him with a suspicious, puzzled expression.

“That’s right. I shouldn’t be gone more than four or five days,” Maggie said, propping the phone next to her ear with her shoulder as she stretched the phone cord and handed Becca the bottle of maple syrup. “A week at the most.”

“It don’t make no never mind,” her neighbor replied. “A few days either way won’t make much difference.”

“I really appreciate it. And if I can ever return the favor, just let me know.” While she gave instructions about the horses and dog, she finished putting a few dishes into the dishwasher and swiped crumbs, syrup, and coffee spills from the counters. Thane had moved out of the way and stood, drinking from a chipped mug she’d gotten as a wedding-shower gift years before. When she finally hung up, Becca was done with her breakfast and had, with the use of one crutch, returned to her bedroom.

“You packed?” Maggie called down the hallway as she checked her watch.

“Just about.”

“I’ll help her carry it out.” Thane left his cup in the sink.

“Wait a minute.” She grabbed hold of the crook of his elbow, then dropped her hand quickly. “Let’s talk about what’s going on here. Yes, I’m going to Denver to find out about Mary Theresa, but I think I should just buy a plane ticket and fly there.”

“Rather than go with me?” One cynical eyebrow cocked, and she felt her blood pressure elevate a bit.

“Right.”

“Why?”

She thought about hedging again, but decided at a time like this the truth was the best, if the last resort. “Because I don’t trust you,” she admitted.

His lips compressed and he rubbed a jaw that was darkened with better than a day’s growth of beard. He didn’t have to say anything; the clouds that crossed his eyes convinced her that he got the message. “As long as we understand each other.”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“I’m not sure that’s good enough, Thane,” she admitted.

“It’s the best I can offer.” His jaw was rock-hard, his blue-gray eyes steady and focused on her so intently she saw his pupils dilate.

The back of her throat went dry, and a small, very feminine part of her wanted to believe in him, to put the deception of the past behind her, to give him the benefit of the doubt. “You’re…you’re asking a lot.”

“I know.” He was serious, pain evidenced in the lines fanning from his eyes. “But I have to ask. I could be in trouble, Maggie. The police act like they think I was somehow responsible for Mary Theresa’s disappearance.”

Maggie thought of the desperate voice she’d heard while feeding the horses. Her sister’s voice.

“What do you say?” he asked.

Maggie didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say.

He snorted and shook his head. “You don’t believe me, either.” His voice was flat, without judgment. “Well, hell, I suppose I deserve this, but I’m tellin’ you right here and now, I didn’t do anything to harm her.”

If only she could believe him, trust in those cold blue eyes, see beyond the cynical man in rawhide and denim and peer into the depths of his inky soul. What would she find, she wondered, then decided she was better off not knowing. “All right,” she heard herself saying, “I’ll ride with you, Thane. You’ve got over a thousand miles to convince me that you’re on a mission of mercy, that you’re just interested in the safety and whereabouts of your ex-wife, that Mary Theresa’s welfare is your primary objective.”

He didn’t so much as flinch at the barbs of sarcasm in her words. “Let’s get a move on.” His gaze swept the interior of the cabin, to the fireplace, where only dead ash was testament of last night’s fire. “You’ve taken care of everything here?”

“Yep.” She nodded. “As soon as Becca’s packed, I’m ready. Barkley’s going to camp out in the barn with the other animals until Charlie can pick him up and take him to his place. So”—she looked around her home one last time to see that everything was as it should be—“I guess we’re all set.”

He nodded and walked down the short hallway to Becca’s room, when the phone rang again. Maggie snatched it up, crossing her fingers in the hope that it was her sister.

“Ms. McCrae?” A male voice. Her heart nose-dived. “This is Craig Beaumont. I work with your sister, and I was just checking to see if you had any idea where she might be.”

Maggie sagged against the cupboards. “No,” she said, her throat closing. This was all starting to be too real. She’d never met Beaumont, only knew he was a “pretty boy who would sell his mother to the devil for higher ratings,” according to Mary Theresa. Craig was worried, he claimed, and explained how Marquise hadn’t come in to work last Friday, how everyone at the station was worried, and how they’d been checking around. “…we tried to call earlier, but couldn’t get hold of you.”

“I’m sorry.” She hung up a few seconds later and felt dead inside, her hopes dashed.

“Trouble?” Thane asked as he walked into the kitchen, carrying her athletic bag and a smaller case that housed Becca’s portable CD player.

“That was the man Mary Theresa works with.”

“Ron Bishop, the station manager.”

“No, her cohost.”

“Beaumont.”

“Yes. They were just checking.”

“So she hasn’t shown up anywhere yet.”

“No.” She shook her head and decided that the sooner she got to Denver, the better. “We’d better get going.”

“I’ll load up.” Maggie helped Becca out to the truck, apologized profusely to Barkley as she locked him in a stall with the horses, then closed her ears to the sound of his whining as she slammed the door of the barn shut behind her.

With one eye to the clouds that gathered in the morning sky, Thane stowed the bags beneath a canopy covering the bed of his truck, then climbed behind the wheel. They were squeezed together more tightly than Maggie liked, but she held her tongue.

As soon as they put Becca on the plane, there would be more distance between Thane and her. She found little comfort in the thought, however, because from that point on she and the one man she’d sworn never to trust would be alone, driving through a desolate part of the country where sometimes the radio reception was so bad that they would be forced to keep each other company.

Becca, seemingly oblivious to the tension between her mother and her aunt’s ex-husband, scrounged in her CD case, found a disc she wanted, shoved it into the player, and placed the headphones over her ears. Her head swaying in rhythm to the music, she cranked up the volume to a decibel loud enough that Maggie could make out some of the lyrics.

Thane shoved the truck into gear, and, as the first snowflakes of the morning began to drift from a graying sky, they left the cabin behind.

Something was going on. Something big. But Becca couldn’t figure out what it was. Listening to an old Nirvana CD, she couldn’t get into the music that usually swept her away. Neither Kurt Cobain nor his hard guitar chords dispelled her sense of the immediate tension that was thick between her mother and Thane Walker, Marquise’s ex-husband. Weird. Maybe Marquise was in worse trouble than they were saying.

Becca stole a look at her mother from the corner of her eye. Beneath the fringe of her lashes she caught a glimpse of Maggie, white-faced and biting on the edge of a thumbnail. Sitting stiffly, almost as if she had a case of rigor mortis, her mother stared out the windshield. Her lips were turned down at the corners and she looked worried, the way she had when she’d told Becca about the divorce just over a year ago.

Inside, Becca’s stomach churned and she closed her mind to thoughts of her parents. Sure they’d fought. Big deal. Everyone’s parents had fights. But somehow theirs had escalated to the point of divorce.

And then her dad had died.

The back of her eyes burned for a second, and she gritted her teeth as Kurt Cobain sang on and on. The empty part of her, the part that still hurt, burned again and she refused to think of her father or the fact that he wouldn’t have died if it hadn’t been for that last ugly fight.

“Shit,” she mumbled.

“What?” Her mother’s head swung in her direction.

“Nothin’.” She didn’t want to go into it and closed her eyes as the song ended. For a few seconds the silence in the pickup was deafening, then a crash of guitar chords started the next tune. Thank God. She’d listen. And instead of thinking about her parents and the crummy past, she’d concentrate on her future. And L.A. She smiled and decided she wasn’t going back to Idaho ever again. It was like nowhere. Real hicksville. Aunt Connie would take her in; Jennifer had said so. And Jennifer had also promised on her next visit to take her to a party to meet some guys. She also said that they’d get their navels pierced and maybe even go to a tattoo parlor for some body art.

It would be so cool.

And her mom would flip.

Excellent. Becca slunk lower in the seat and bobbed her head in time with the drumbeats. She wasn’t sure what kind of tattoo she’d get, but she wanted to put it on her ankle so people could see it when she wasn’t wearing socks. A butterfly would be cool, but was kinda common. Not in Idaho, of course, but in L.A. A spider was a little too creepy, but a hummingbird might be just right. She smiled to herself, envisioning the colorful creature hovering just above her heel, its long beak dipping into a small flower. Yeah, that would do it.

And Mom will freak out.

Perfect.

A little twinge of guilt pricked her conscience, but she refused to think about it. For now she’d concentrate on having the time of her life in Los Angeles.

Later, as they passed over White Bird Hill, she sneaked a peek at Thane. Grim-faced, wearing sunglasses and concentrating on the snow that had started falling from the sky in small, icy pellets, he stared straight ahead. As if there wasn’t another soul in the pickup. For an old guy, he was okay-looking, if you liked the rangy cowboy type. He looked like he’d rather be riding a bucking bronco or at least a huge motorcycle. There was an edge to him that even Becca, at age thirteen, could feel. So what was the deal with him and her mother? Why did they act as if they couldn’t stand each other?

Becca had never heard much talk about Marquise’s first husband, only that Maggie had never approved of the marriage and had always changed the subject whenever it had been brought up. She seemed to hate this guy.

Not that it mattered one way or the other. The only thing that Becca cared about was that she was about to be free, and she never intended to return to Backwoods USA again. In a few hours, she’d be outta there. For good.

It was about time.

Chewing on a toothpick he’d picked up at the airport restaurant, Thane watched the jet scream down the runway. Snow was building on either side of the tarmac, and the silver bird’s wings had been de-iced before takeoff, yet he felt Maggie’s case of nerves as if they were his own. Beside him, her face pressed to the glass, she seemed to hold her breath as the jet lifted its nose to the air, then took flight.

“This is the first time I’ve let her fly on her own,” she admitted, as her daughter’s plane disappeared into the clouds.

“She’ll be fine.”

The look she shot him told him she didn’t believe it for a minute, but then she’d been prickly from the moment he’d set eyes on her last night. Her body language as well as her words convinced him that she didn’t trust him. But then, she’d always been the smarter of the two sisters.

“She’s going to be with relatives, right?”

“Not mine.”

“Your husband’s.”

She nodded, her eyes darkening a bit. “Dean’s brother and sister-in-law. They have a girl, Jennifer, a few years older. Becca idolizes her.”

“And you don’t?”

“I think she’s on a faster track than she should be.”

“All kids are these days,” he observed.

“You don’t understand.” Maggie seemed as if she were going to say something more, then thought better of it and held her tongue.

“Enlighten me.”

The look she leveled at him would cut through stone. “I don’t have enough years in my life left.”

His mouth twitched despite his bad mood, but she wasn’t kidding. “Look, I’ll call Connie and Jim tonight. Make sure that Becca got there.” Her eyes were as clouded as the Boise sky, her skin pale. She glanced his way. “Okay, so let’s get this show on the road.” As if she’d given herself a swift mental kick, she turned away from the viewing window and headed down the concourse. Thane tried not to notice the jut of her chin or the lines of agitation that creased her usually smooth brow. Nor did he let his eyes wander to the sway of her hips as she strode so purposefully along the hallway. Sometimes she looked so much like Mary Theresa that his emotions got the better of him—rage and distrust charged into his soul.

And now good ole Mary Theresa, no, make that Marquise, was exacting her final revenge. On him. It was fitting somehow, a fine case of irony if there ever was one.

Outside the terminal, snow was blowing across the parking lot, scattering in the bitter wind that tore mercilessly down from northern Canada. He glanced at the sky, muttered an oath under his breath, and prayed they would find some way to outrun the storm that was predicted to chase them all the way to Colorado.

He unlocked the passenger side of the truck and waited until Maggie was tucked inside, then he slammed the door shut and knew in his gut that he was about to make the biggest mistake of his life—well, second biggest. The first had been marrying Mary Theresa Riley.

He had no choice. He had a job to do. Nothing more. He couldn’t forget his objective for a second. He slid a surreptitious look at the woman seated so close to him. Beautiful. Smart. Treacherous. Just like her sister. Or the rest of womankind for that matter. In Thane’s opinion, they were all alike. Every damned one of them.

“Okay, so you be good for Aunt Connie and Uncle Jim, okay?” Maggie said into the mouthpiece of the pay telephone.

“I will, Mom.” Becca sounded distracted, ready to bolt; she was in California and didn’t need or want to deal with her mother.

“I’ll call when I get to Denver.” It was dark, and outside the phone booth snow swirled in a fine powder that piled on the roof of the roadside cafe and covered the parking lot.

“Fine. Whatever.”

“Becca—” she reproached and caught sight of filthy words and telephone numbers scratched into the metal where a missing phone book had once been tethered. For a good time call Pamela. Randy loves Jill. Hearts. Arrows. And the usual four letters.

“I said ‘fine.’”

There was no reason to try and reprimand her from hundreds of miles away. “Okay. Love ya. Bye.”

“Bye.” Click. Becca had hung up, and Maggie stared at the receiver for a few heart-wrenching seconds. Her baby was growing away from her, taking off with all the restless energy of a pent-up colt at the gate. Give her time, she told herself as she hung up. Remember how you were at thirteen.

Inside the diner the smells of grilled onions, smoke, and day-old grease lingered in an invisible cloud near the rafters. The heating system was wheezing as it worked overtime against the dropping outdoor temperature. Colored lights, strung over the windows as if it was nearly Christmas rather than early November, winked merrily. Someone had plugged a jukebox full of quarters, and country music played on and on, accompanied by the tinkle of silverware, the murmur of conversation, and the ripple of discordant riffs of laughter.

Thane sat on one side of a wooden booth, his jacket hung on a peg. A few glints of gray appeared in the stubble darkening his chin, and the lines radiating from the corners of his eyes aged him a bit, but he still possessed that raw animal magnetism that she’d found fascinating at nineteen, an innate sexuality that some men were cursed with all of their lives.

“Get her?” he asked, looking up from a plastic-encased menu that sported more than its share of burn marks from cigarettes smoked long ago.

“Yep.”

“Everything okay?”

“Other than rampant teenage attitude?” She picked up her menu, scanned the dinner selections, and avoided the questions in his eyes. Her relationship with her daughter was none of his business. “Have you ordered?”

“Just coffee.”

A slim waitress in a checked blouse, tight jeans, and scarf tied loosely around her long neck appeared with two cups and a thermal pot. “Regular?” she asked, and poured as they nodded. “Made up yer minds on dinner?”

“Burger and fries.” Maggie wasn’t in the mood to count calories or fat grams or anything else for that matter. “With the works.”

“Same—but cheese on the burger,” Thane ordered.

“You got it.” She whisked away, slapping the order on the counter separating the kitchen from the dining area.

“How far to Denver?”

“Too far.” Thane looked into the night. “We can’t outrun the storm, so we just have to drive as far as we can. Probably Salt Lake. I’ve got studs on the tires, chains in the back if we need ’em. We won’t be stranded.”

“How do you know?”

He swung his gaze back to her. “I won’t let that happen.”

“So now you’re God?”

His lips pursed. “Just don’t worry.”

“You take more risks than I do.”

“I’ll get us through this.”

“Look, Thane, I said I’d go to Denver with you. I said I’d talk to the police. I even said that I’d vouch for you, though God knows I don’t trust you for a second, but I’ve learned over the years that I shouldn’t rely on anyone, that I can stand on my own two feet, and that they’re steadier than anyone’s shoulder I’ve ever made the mistake of leaning on, including yours.”

A muscle worked near his temple. “So now we’re down to it, aren’t we?”

“Just forget it.”

“You know, Maggie,” he said, resting his head against the wooden back of the booth, “you’re starting to sound like a bitter woman.”

“I wonder why?” she threw back at him. She was edgy and nervous, saw no reason to hide it. “And really, who cares?”

“You do.”

“Do I?” She nearly laughed but he’d hit too close to the mark.

“It’s not like the girl I remember.”

She stopped short, her breath caught in her lungs. Don’t fall for this, Maggie. You’re way too smart, and you’ve been burned before. “I think we’d better not go into what you or I remember.”

“Why not?”

Was that her heart drumming? “Water under the bridge, cowboy. That’s all it is.” She took a sip of her coffee and was grateful that her hand was steady. This conversation was getting way too personal.

“I don’t think so.” Suddenly he leaned forward, his elbows landing on the Formica tabletop. “I think you’re scared.”

Damned straight. “Of what?”

“Me, for starters.

“In your dreams.”

“Not my dreams, kid. My nightmares.”

“Let’s not get into this, okay? It’s not the time, or the place. All we have to concentrate on is Mary Theresa.”

His steady gaze called her a liar.

“And whatever you do, Walker, don’t try and second-guess me or psychoanalyze my motives, or read more into my words.” She hooked her thumb at her chest. “I tell it just like it is, okay?”

The waitress returned on hushed shoes. A plastic smile curved her glossy apricot-hued lips as she slid two platters onto the table. “Can I get you anything else?”

Yeah, a one-way ticket back home.

“This’ll do,” Thane said, then quirked an eyebrow at Maggie, inviting her opinion without saying a word.

“Just catsup.”

“Comin’ right up.” She turned, snagged a plastic squirt bottle from the counter, and plopped it in front of Maggie.

“Thanks.”

“If ya need anything, just give a holler.” She motioned to the counter, where a refrigerated case spun slowly, showing off an array of confections. “You just might want dessert, and our lemon meringue pie is to die for. No kiddin’. Baked fresh.” She pivoted on a soft-soled pump and focused her attention on a table of men with round bellies, flushed faces, baseball caps of various colors, and toothpicks wedged into the sides of their mouths.

Maggie ate in silence, and Thane didn’t bother trying to break into her thoughts or making meaningless chitchat. In a small diner where everyone talked, laughed, smoked, and flirted, they ate in stony silence, the past edging into Maggie’s thoughts, eroding her equilibrium while the future towered in a dark mysterious cloud ahead. When they were finished with burgers, fries, and a wedge of pecan pie with ice cream at Thane’s insistence, he reached for his wallet.

Maggie delved into her purse.

“This is mine,” he said, eyeing her as she extracted her wallet.

“No way.”

“I practically shanghaied you to get you to come with me.”

She pulled out a ten and rested her elbows on either side of her half-eaten hamburger and the goo that had been most of her dessert. “Look, Walker, let’s get one thing straight, okay? I pay my own way. Yes, you talked me into coming, but I would have flown to Denver anyway to find out what happened to my sister. So we’ll split everything down the middle.” With that she reached for her ski jacket.

“Is that so I don’t get the wrong idea?”

The tops of her ears started to burn as she stood and shoved her arms down the jacket’s thick sleeves. Quickly, she forced her hands through the gloves that she’d stashed in one pocket. “I guess.”

She wanted to wipe the amused smile from his beard-shadowed chin. “You want to make sure I don’t think this is some kind of convoluted date, right?”

“You’re so damned conceited, it’s unbelievable.”

“It beats paranoia.”

“Barely.”

His smile faded as he tossed a matching bill onto the table. Anger flashed in his eyes. Without another word, he grabbed his jacket with one hand and Maggie’s elbow with the other.

“What’re you doing…wait.”

Silently he pulled, forcing her past the front desk, through double glass doors to the vestibule and into the dark night, where snow continued to fall. A quiet seething rage emanated from him as they strode to his truck. He unlocked the door for her, then climbed into the driver’s side. After tossing his jacket into the space behind the seat where her laptop was stowed, he jabbed his key into the ignition. The engine turned over as she buckled her seat belt. He crammed the gearshift into reverse and backed out of his parking space.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he said as he threw the truck into first, maneuvered around a semi rolling into the truck stop, and eyed the desolate stretch of highway heading southeast. “I need your help. Period. I don’t expect anything more than your help in finding that damned sister of yours and helping me clear my name.” He clicked his headlights onto high beam, and snow swirled and danced in the glow. “You don’t owe me a thing, so I thought I’d take care of the expenses. This isn’t part of some grand seduction, Maggie, it’s a simple case of paying you back for your inconvenience.”

Her face was hot, her cheeks burning, but hopefully he didn’t notice in the dark cab as he scowled and squinted through the windshield.

He flipped on the wipers, then adjusted the control for the defroster. “Got it?”

“Got it,” she replied tightly, and felt like a fool. Of course he wasn’t interested in her, that wasn’t the point. She thought about holding her tongue, then decided it was best to clear the air. “I just wanted to lay down the ground rules,” she said, slowly forcing her hands from their clenched fists to relax. “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“Amen.” A car appeared around the corner, flashing the interior of his truck with white, artificial light. She noticed his profile: Hard. Set. Determined. One hundred percent male. A strong, sometimes fierce man. Someone who didn’t always tell the truth; she knew that from the past. So what secrets was he keeping? What was he hiding? She looked away, through the passenger window to the trees, tall heavy-boughed guardians of the night. Snow clung to their branches, and in other circumstances she would have found them and the steep hillsides they were climbing breathtaking. Tonight they seemed foreboding, casting a spell of fear and desolation.

Where was Mary Theresa? Was she alive? Oh, God, she had to be. Maggie’s throat thickened. Staring into the stormy night, she crossed her fingers and sent up silent prayer after silent prayer for her sister.

Surely Mary Theresa was safe. Surely when they got to Denver they’d find out that the ever-flighty Marquise had just left town for a few days and forgotten to tell anyone. But as much as she tried to convince herself, she felt a chill in her blood that had nothing to do with the weather, and as the snow turned to icy pellets that battered the hood of the truck and slickened the road Maggie couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Terribly and irreversibly wrong.

Be safe, Mary, she thought, closing her eyes and remembering her sister as she always had been—a free spirit who, though self-centered, was a person everyone fell in love with. Everyone including Thane Walker. Even he hadn’t been immune to Mary Theresa’s charms. But then why would he have been? He had been a man, and all men, it seemed, were susceptible to Mary Theresa Reilly.

Maggie had first noticed it years ago, when Mitchell, their cousin who had been raised as their brother, had been alive. They’d been young then, barely seventeen, only a few years older than Becca was now, but already Mary Theresa was developing her charms, honing them on all the boys they knew, including the one whom Maggie had considered her brother…