Читать книгу Captivating Witness - Melinda Lorenzo Di - Страница 13
ОглавлениеBrayden cursed himself for giving in to a rare moment of spontaneous emotion. Though giving in implied he’d done it consciously. The move had been pure instinct. The impulsive seizure of a moment. Not something he’d consider doing under normal circumstances.
And for your moment, you chose a kiss on her hand? Really, Maxwell? When her mouth was just as close?
But he couldn’t deny the impact of the small gesture. He could still taste her salty, dust-covered palm. Still feel the coolness of it on his lips. It was a sharp contrast to the warmth everywhere else their bodies had touched. Continued to touch. It dulled some—if not all—of his irritation at her sudden flight and brought him back to his typically patient self.
“M—er, Brayden?”
“Mmph,” he mumbled back.
“Aren’t we going the wrong way?”
“Nope.”
“I came in from the other direction.”
“Yeah. And you kind of ran in a circle.”
“I did?”
“That’s how I managed to catch up with you,” he said, grateful for the distracting conversation. “Took me about ninety seconds to figure out you were too smart to head right back into town. Went back to the house to get a flashlight so I could search for you, and I heard you crashing around above the cabins.”
“Crap.”
“Yep.”
“I guess I’m not very experienced at running and hiding.”
“That’s a good thing. Most of the time anyway.”
Brayden pushed through the last thick patch of trees. The far-range, motion-detection light came on immediately, illuminating the rear of his rented cabin.
“See?” he said. “Here we are.”
Reggie blinked at the light. “Wow. I’m not just bad at running away. I’m terrible.”
Brayden couldn’t help but laugh. “I’d tell you it takes some practice, but that probably wouldn’t be very reassuring.”
“Definitely not.”
He moved quickly from the back of the cabin to the front, where he paused at the bottom on the stairs and asked teasingly, “You ready to be carried over the threshold?”
Even in the dim light, he could see the color bloom in her cheeks. “I could try walking.”
He glanced down at her dirty, battered-looking feet. “Might be better not to. Unless you want to add splinter removal to my list of first aid duties. And call me crazy, but I think checking you over for a concussion and tending to those cuts is probably enough of a first aid order for one night, don’t you?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh.”
“What?”
“Now I can’t insist on being independent without making it seem like I’m trying to create more work for you.”
“I’d apologize, but I’m not really sorry.”
“Fine. Carry away.”
Grinning to himself, he took the steps quickly, then paused at the door and adjusted so he could drag out his key. He held her tightly all the way into the house, not releasing her until he’d flicked on the lights in the rustic cabin and made his way through the country-style kitchen into the living room. There, he settled her onto the love seat and took a step back.
“How’s your head?” he asked.
“Not too bad.”
“Still dizzy?”
“Just a bit,” she admitted. “Mostly when I move quickly.”
“Like when you run through the woods barefoot?”
“Funny.”
“I thought so. Any nausea?”
“No.”
“All right. Close your eyes, count to thirty, then open them and look up at the light.”
“Okay.”
She dropped her lids, but when Brayden moved closer and positioned himself over her, her eyes flew open again immediately.
“I don’t think you counted to ten, let alone thirty,” he said.
Reggie blinked. “Uh. No.”
“Makes it a little harder to check your reactivity to light.”
“Oh.”
“Wanna try again?”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes a second time, and Brayden counted the seconds off in his head. One for every rise and fall of her chest. He was hyperconscious of their physical closeness. Every breath brought in that light cinnamon scent of hers. By the time he finished ticking off the moments, she bumped her leg against his. Twice. And she didn’t open her eyes at the end, either. She just continued to sit there, one lip sucked under the other, cheeks slightly flushed, and her long, dark lashes resting lightly on her skin.
Can’t beat this view, Brayden thought, drinking in the sight of her for a few seconds longer before speaking. “I think you’re good now. I’m at a count of fifty-three.”
“Right.”
As she opened her eyes, he brought his finger to her chin and tipped her face toward the light overhead. He held her still as he examined her, and when he did let her go, he had to admit it was with genuine reluctance. At least it was until her green eyes found his gaze and held it. He’d be happy to lose himself in that stare for a ridiculous amount of time.
“So?” she prompted softly.
“So?”
“Do I pass?”
“I wouldn’t recommend running into any more cars tonight, if you can avoid it,” he said, offering her a small smile. “But I don’t think you’re concussed.”
“That’s good news.”
“Sure is.” He eased up off the couch. “I’m going to grab the first aid kit. You want something to drink?”
“Just a glass of water, maybe?”
“On it.”
He pushed up off the couch and moved toward the kitchen. Digging through the cupboards gave him a moment of reprieve from the unusual onslaught of emotion gripping him. There was no denying the effect Reggie Frost had on him. Though he couldn’t pinpoint why, she definitely stirred every protective feeling he had.
And a few not-so-protective ones, he though as he paused in the doorway to admire her profile.
She was leaned over a little on the couch—not slumped, just resting—and she’d tugged her hair free so that her thick tresses covered her face completely.
Real shame to hide that, he thought absently as he stepped into the room and offered her the glass.
“Your water?”
“Thanks.”
Their fingers brushed as he handed it over, and unsurprisingly, another wave of desire swept through him. She met his eyes, and he could swear he saw the same want reflected in her eyes before her gaze dropped and she took a deep sip of the liquid in the cup.
He had to really work to focus on the more pressing needs of the current situation. He unzipped the first aid bag and dug through it for some antiseptic and some gauze.
“This is going to hurt, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Might sting,” he agreed. “Why don’t you distract yourself by walking me through what you saw back there in the alley?”
She shivered. “I already told you about the guys and the gun.”
“Walk me through again anyway, starting at the beginning. I want a full picture.”
As Brayden dabbed the first of the cuts, she drew in a sharp breath and launched into the story.
He listened intently as the pretty waitress told him what she’d seen. About recognizing Chuck and about his threats. About the frightened man on the other end of the weapon and their brief exchange. She was just as scared herself. It was clear in the way she kept worrying at her bottom lip, and the slight quiver in her voice as she spoke. He couldn’t blame her for the fear, and it made him itch to reach out and comfort her. To bend down and touch her face and tell her it was all right. Maybe sweep back the stray strand of dark hair that kept slipping down to her cheek.
It was a strange urge for him, and it felt almost as odd to fight it as it did to have it in the first place. He might even have given in to it if his hands hadn’t been busy.
Back home, Brayden had a reputation for being cold and calculating. Though he’d never confirmed its validity, he’d even once heard a rumor that everyone in his department called him Ice when he was out of earshot. It didn’t bother him. Being calculating made him better at his job. Being cold meant he could stay detached. It was part of what made him such an effective cop. It was also the reason he’d been nominated to come to Whispering Woods first. He’d watch. Listen. Gain some insight into what exactly Garibaldi was up to in the tourist town.
So why is that coolness so hard to come by right now?
He studied Reggie for a second, watching her kissable mouth work as she talked.
He had no problem admitting that he found her physically attractive. He’d touched her less than a handful of times—albeit a few extended times—but each had been a bit like being hit by a lightning bolt. It’d taken a sincere amount of effort to not stop and assess it each time it happened.
Actually acting on the feeling was a whole other story. In that, he had a choice. Brayden picked whom he let into his space very carefully, and he could count on one hand the number of women he’d let get close in all his thirty years.
Not like you’ve got much choice here, he reminded himself.
It was true. This situation wasn’t intentional. But it was also true that holding the waitress up while she leaned on him for support was nowhere near unpleasant. It felt good, actually, to be so thoroughly needed. So much so that he almost didn’t notice she’d stopped talking until she cleared her throat.
“Brayden?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“What do you think happened to him?” she asked softly.
“The man who got shot?”
“Yes.”
Brayden hesitated. His instinct was to keep as many details under wraps as he could. The detective in him didn’t like the idea of oversharing. Especially with a civilian. He sensed, though, that not disclosing things would put up a wall, and he was sure he was going to need this woman’s trust. He sat down on the edge of his coffee table and met her eyes.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “The alley was clean. Except for one small thing.”
“Which was?”
“A half-inch-long, rust-colored smear on the wall.”
“Blood.”
“Likely.”
“So it wasn’t just clean. It was cleaned up.”
She was as intuitive as she was pretty, he had to give her that.
“That was my first thought,” he agreed.
She closed her eyes for a quick second, then opened them to meet his gaze. “Chuck’s a cop, Brayden. What does that mean about the rest of Whispering Woods PD?”
Brayden didn’t even have to consider his answer. “They could be involved, too.”
“But someone needs to be told what happened. State police, maybe?”
“We don’t know what there is to tell,” he reminded her. “Definitely not enough to bring them all the way out here fast enough. And to be honest, they might just go ahead and alert the locals anyway.”
“So what do I do?”
This time, he took a moment to think about how to answer. It would be easy enough to tell her the truth—that he was a cop himself and would do his best to find out what was going on. It wasn’t technically a true undercover assignment. Just a covert one. An exploratory mission that was a lot easier to do when no one knew who he was.
So you don’t need to leap in and give yourself away to a virtual stranger. Especially when you haven’t even finished what you came here to do.
He decided to see if he could get away with not disclosing his identity—yet anyway—and instead asked, “What were you going to do, before all of this?”
“Go home. Sip wine. Prepare for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I’m signed up to run the face-painting station for a few hours in the morning. I’ve got the lunch rush at work. Then I’m supposed to get into a really uncomfortable pair of shoes and get ready for the dinner.”
“The lunch rush is the only part of that I understood.”
“The Garibaldi Gala is tomorrow.”
“Right.”
The exclusive party had slipped his mind in the height of all the excitement. He’d spent the week hearing about it. Even inquired about somehow getting a ticket only to be told it was absolutely invite only. An event catered to stroke the egos of local businessmen. Every one of whom would be in attendance.
Except Reggie, if she stays here.
“No one will miss you at the fireworks tonight?” he asked, careful to keep his voice neutral.
She shook her head. “I was skipping them in favor of resting. Is that bad?”
“It’s fine. Just don’t want to draw any more attention to yourself than necessary. Chuck’ll already be on high alert. He doesn’t know for sure that you witnessed what happened. You said yourself you don’t think he saw you. And even though it’s not proof, he does have that shoe of yours. If I were him, I’d be trying to find out exactly what you knew.”
Her face pinched with worry. “So you think he’ll be looking for me?”
“I think you should find a way to let him know not to be looking for you.”
“How?”
“Got a friend you can call? One who’ll be at the fireworks and be willing to lie for you with no questions asked?”
“I think so. Why?”
“I want you to fake an illness. Nothing too serious. Just a good excuse for keeping out of sight unless you have to be seen.”
“Okay. I think I’ll call—” Her face fell as she reached for the pocket on her uniform. “I left my phone in my locker at the diner.”
“You can use mine.” He went for his own pocket before remembering. “Which you dropped outside.”
She smiled ruefully. “Sorry. Again.”
“Forgiven. Again. I’m almost done with your feet, and as soon as I am, I’ll go grab it.” He lifted a fresh wipe from the first aid kit, then said, “So. Your invitation to the Gala. Does that mean your family works for Garibaldi?”
“No. We don’t work for him. But we do lease the diner from him,” she replied. “You don’t know Garibaldi’s story?”
“Not really.”
It wasn’t quite a lie; Brayden knew the man’s history, not his current story. It had taken him and the other guys nearly two years just to track him to Whispering Woods. So when he’d asked around a bit, he’d done his best to be subtle. All he got in response was a lot of people singing Garibaldi’s praises. Like he was the town’s personal savior. Something in Reggie’s tone as she explained made Brayden think she didn’t necessarily share the sentiment.
“Well,” she said, “when the forestry industry bottomed out fourteen years ago, a lot of people foreclosed. Or just walked away. The minimal tourism wasn’t enough to maintain their homes and businesses. Then Garibaldi showed up. He assumed a few dozen mortgages. Then a few more. He invested a lot of money in the town and built the lodge.”
Brayden finished with the antiseptic and moved on to the bandages. “You don’t sound all that impressed.”
“I don’t want to seem like I’m not grateful,” she replied. “Without his help, we would’ve had to leave town, too, I’m sure.”
“But?”
“I don’t know. I was just barely a teenager when Garibaldi showed up, but the whole thing gave me a weird feeling.”
“No one questioned his interest in the town?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes.”
“There were a couple of business owners who weren’t all that happy. They got kind of vocal.”
“People you knew well?”
“You could say.” She offered him a ghost of a smile. “All three were local businessmen. One of them happens to be the man who plays Santa Claus every year in the little parade we have.”
Brayden fastened the last of the bandage on one foot, then moved on to the next. “No one listened to them?”
“They left town.”
“What?”
“Two of them moved away. Only Santa Claus stayed.”
“Well. Santa Claus does have a certain amount of obligation.” He patted her foot and smiled. “All done.”
She sighed and leaned back. “So what next?”
“After tonight, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“If you’re feeling up to it tomorrow, you do exactly what you were planning on doing. Go to work. Then go to the Garibaldi Gala.”
“Really?”
“It’s the least suspicious thing to do.”
“I don’t know if I can do it. I’m scared.”
“Rightly so. But the alternative will draw more attention than you want. You can probably get away with lying low tonight, but after that...anything out of the ordinary is going to seem like you’re hiding.”
“Because I want to be hiding.”
“You could leave town.”
“But my dad...”
“So the Gala it is.”
Reggie was quiet for a long moment before sitting up abruptly, a hopeful look on her pretty face. “You could come with me.”
Brayden frowned. “I don’t think I’m on the guest list.”
“The invite was for a plus-one.”
He started to protest, then realized that the idea actually had appeal. On multiple levels. He could stick close to Reggie. He might even get a chance to speak to Garibaldi directly—something he’d been trying to do for a week without success.
He nodded. “All right.”
Relief filled her face. “Do you have a suit?”
“I do. And I’m even willing to put it on. But first. The phone call to your friend. I’ll go grab my cell from outside.”
He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze as he pushed to his feet, and before he could stop himself, he bent down to tuck her hair behind her ear. For a second, she looked startled. Then she smiled up at him. A small, appreciative look that carried up to her eyes, and warmed him from the inside.
“Thank you, Brayden,” she said. “Again.”
“No problem.”
He slipped out of the cabin, his mind working to process what she’d told him about Garibaldi and the men who opposed his takeover of Whispering Woods. If all three had left town under the described circumstances, it would’ve raised a lot of questions for him. As it stood now, the circumstances were still suspicious enough that he wanted to talk to the one who’d stayed behind.
Santa Claus.
At least the idea of interviewing Saint Nick provided some comic relief. All he had to do was ask the pretty waitress for an in.
Brayden snagged his phone from the ground, then made his way back inside, the request on his lips. “Reggie, do you think you could—”
He stopped immediately when he spotted her. She’d tucked her legs up onto the couch and pulled her arms in to her body. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was slow and steady.
“Reggie?” he called softly.
She didn’t stir.
For a second, he contemplated waking her. Even though he was sure she didn’t have a concussion, there was no such thing as being too careful, and there was the phone call he’d asked her to make. He moved toward her. Then stilled again as she let out a little sigh. She was far too peaceful to disturb, and the call could wait and be altered to suit their needs. No one would be looking for her here.
The couch, though, was a cringeworthy place for a solid rest.
Brayden crossed the room, then bent to carefully scoop her up. She mumbled something incoherent, pressed her head against his chest, then settled in like she belonged there.
With his own sigh and a strange tightness in his chest, he carried her from the living room to the bedroom, where he tucked her soundly sleeping form into his own bed. When he was satisfied that she was comfortable, he moved to leave the room. He found that he couldn’t quite do it. So—chalking it up to a need to ensure Reggie’s safety—Brayden settled into the overstuffed chair in the corner of the room and closed his own eyes.
