Broken Honor (17 page)

“He let me know it was necessary,” he said wryly.

She sat, and her hand rubbed Bo's ears, his favorite place. She felt guilty that she'd not taken him out earlier. Amy could feel her face turning red at the thought of what had diverted her from giving him the attention he deserved. She sought to change the subject. “Do you think I can get some clothes?”

“Yes,” he said. “They have an officer in front and in back, but I see no reason why they won't let you have your clothes.”

“My boxes?”

“Did you find anything in them?”

She looked into his eyes, wanting to know how much the answer to that question meant to him. “No. I went through most of them. I don't know why anyone would be interested in them.”

“Your friend Jon had them for several weeks. Could he have removed something from them?”

A week ago she would have said that was impossible. She trusted Jon. Now she wondered whether she could trust anyone.

“I don't know,” she said simply. “I don't know anything any more.”

“Would you object to my going through them? I might see something you didn't.”

She deliberated. She was getting nowhere on her own. She nodded. “Can we get them back from the police?”

“I think so. They have no reason to keep any of your possessions.”

Amy looked up at him. “When do we leave here?” Not
I
. She needed that “we” at the moment.

“We'll be safe enough here for a couple of days. Police are crawling all over the place. The management said we can be their guests, though I suspect they would be happier if we leave.”

She suddenly grinned. “I bet they would.”

“On the other hand, I think the local police want us to stay. I don't think any of them has seen a murder before.”

“It
was
pointed out to me that I shouldn't leave without letting them know,” she replied.

He didn't reply.

“Irish?” It was the first time she'd tried the name on her lips.

He raised an eyebrow in question.

“Are you here because of your grandfather? Or are you part of an official investigation?” It was a question that had been worrying her. She still didn't totally trust him. Or his motives.

“It started because of my grandfather,” he said.

“And now?”

“Oh, I still want to know what happened all those years ago, but not at your expense, or the expense of anyone else,” he said.

“Then why did you begin probing in the first place?”

“Surely you had questions when the articles appeared?” he countered.

She remembered the moment she'd read the article. She hadn't believed it of her grandfather then, and she didn't now. She, too, had meant to research it.

“I had a lot of them,” she said, “but I had my tenure hearing coming up, and I thought … later.”

“Tell me about your grandfather.” His voice was low and reassuring.

She shrugged. “Not much to tell, except he was disciplined and honest and demanding. I can't imagine him doing anything dishonorable. If anything, he expected too much of himself, and of others. Including my mother.”

“In what way?”

“He wanted my mother to be like him. His wife—my grandmother—died when my mother was eight. He was gone much of the time, and my mother had one governess after another. She never felt he loved her. Instead, he demanded perfection from her. I think she tried, then discovered she could never meet his expectations, so she stopped trying. She rebelled in every way possible.”

She was silent for a moment, then continued slowly. “She took a picture of him when she left, though, and she collected other photos over the years. Part of her never stopped wanting to be loved by him.”

“And you? What did you think of him?”

“I hated him, even though my mother said I shouldn't. I knew he'd disapproved of her, and that was why she'd left. I didn't like anyone who disapproved of my mother.” She looked at him. “When my mother died, I had to live with him. We went to war with each other. He wanted me to be the lady he'd tried to make my mother into. I resisted him with everything in me. I resented the fact that he was alive and my mother was dead.”

“Who won?” he asked.

“Eventually both of us,” she said. “I found him crying one day when he was looking at my mother's photo. He was embarrassed at being seen, but for the first time I realized that he had really loved her. And that he loved me. He just never knew how to show it. Along about then, we declared a truce.” She gave him a half smile. “I think that's when I discovered nothing was all black or all white.”

“You loved him?”

“Very much, at the end. I always regretted it took me so long to understand how very complex he was. He had come from a family that had nothing. His father died in the coal mines when he was a boy, and his mother migrated to the city, where she cleaned people's houses. He could never understand why my mother didn't appreciate everything she had.

“He was a mustang,” she added, “and he was proud of rising from the ranks. But he never forgot the slights he received because he wasn't a West Pointer. He'd had to fight for everything he ever got, and he never knew how to give an inch.”

“He never gave an inch with you?”

“It took him a while. He didn't know anything about children. He was gone so much of my mother's childhood, and then he would come home and expect her to be like one of his privates. It wasn't meanness; he just didn't know any other way to do it.”

Emotion registered in his eyes. Empathy? Understanding? He always seemed so well contained. At least until last night. But last night was an emotional outlet. Nothing more. And she was talking too much. She'd never talked much about her feelings for her grandfather before. Or her mother. Those memories were too private, too intense.

She could be garrulous about her work, and about superficial things. She'd never been any good at sharing intimate feelings. In fact, she often wondered if anyone really knew who she was. She sometimes wondered if she did herself. The contrast between her mother's carefree lifestyle and her grandfather's structured one had often made her question that.

She wanted to change the subject, and there was nothing like turning the tables.

But then his fingers went up to her face and caressed with exploratory gentleness. She forgot about turning the tables as the heat grew between them again. The sexual awareness they had shared intensified. Knowledge was there between them now. They were no longer two strangers bumbling in a new, enforced relationship. Instead, they had shared a close brush with death, and then let their emotions explode in bed.

Not wise, she told herself. Perhaps not a bond at all, but emotional overflow. Gratitude at being alive and wanting to experience that life to the furthest extent possible. And soon he would go back to his life, and she to hers.

But that was a cop-out, and she knew it. She was afraid. Not only of people trying to kill her, but of wanting something she couldn't have, of experiencing heaven, then losing it. This was something that couldn't last, that—given their own lives—was destined to end.

Still, his very touch was like a live electric wire snapping against her and charging through every nerve ending.

She wrenched away and swallowed hard, looking away from him toward the gray ocean and blue sky and fiery sun. She tried to slow the rapid beating of her heart and calm the need pooling inside her.

Take what is being offered
. She wanted to, but that was the reckless side of her, the side she'd inherited from her mother—and was practiced at taming.
Don't get in any deeper. You still don't know what he's after
.

When she turned back to him, his eyes were masked and he'd moved several feet away, as if he knew she wanted—needed—distance.

“I'll see if I can get your clothes and laptop,” he said.

“I'll go with you,” she said.

He shook his head. “I'll probably have more luck on my own.”

“The good old boy cop network?” She couldn't keep a hint of resentment from her voice.

“Something like that,” he replied.

She hesitated. She wanted to demand to go with him, to make sure all her belongings were safe, even the accursed boxes. She'd noticed he had said nothing about the boxes to the police. Nor had she. She hadn't wanted them impounded again. Darn, there had to be something in them; otherwise, why was she being pursued?

But she also knew how she looked. Her clothes were wrinkled and, like his, had some blood spots. She hadn't taken a bath since the attack, and she felt nothing like the staid, respected, and respectable college professor she was supposed to be. She must smell like sex as well as blood.

Amy nodded. “I'll take a shower.”

“You should be safe. The police are still going over your room, and they're keeping an eye on this one.”

“You think someone would try again in the middle of the day?”

“Hell, I don't know what they would try,” he said. “I do know they seemed determined for some reason.” He paused. “I'll be right back.”

There must have been doubt in her eyes, because he approached her again, touching her chin with his right index finger and forcing her gaze to meet his. “We will find out who and what,” he said. “And there
will
be an end to it.”

She could be dead by then. She still wasn't sure of his motives or his role in all this. She did know he apparently was the only protection she had. It was a galling fact. Even more galling was the fact that she seemed to be putty in his hands. He needed only to look at her. Time in a cold shower would be good.

Very good.

She didn't say anything, but moved away again. She went into the bathroom and slipped off the shirt. Her body was unnaturally hot, and when she looked in the mirror, she saw that her face was flushed. For a moment she looked at herself in the mirror. She had bruise marks on her shoulder where one of the assailants had grabbed her, and the ugly wound from a week ago.

More painful, though, was the want that still lingered in the core of her. She wanted—craved—the feelings she'd had this morning, the wonderful warmth of his body, and the exquisite sensations that followed.

But at what cost?

With a snort of disgust, she entered the shower, first turning on the hot water to cleanse herself, then the cold to cool rampaging feelings. It didn't seem to work. She was just as tingly as before, just as wanting.

And it wasn't only the safety she needed.

Irish traded a few war stories with the officers as one called and asked for permission to allow him to take Dr. Mallory's belongings.

One was particularly interested in the CID. “Nothing ever happens here,” he complained. “Until last night,” he added quickly after Irish raised an eyebrow. “Mostly just traffic accidents, a few hotel thefts, underage drinking on the beach.”

Irish told him how to apply. Many CID agents were civilians, and he seemed like a bright kid, a little intimidated by Irish but not enough to cut him any slack or allow him to do anything without obtaining permission from a superior officer. Irish liked him. He would have told him to use his name, but his name might be more a detriment than a help in the future.

He knew he should call his commanding officer, even though he was on leave. He knew there must have been any number of calls to Doug Fuller. Doug would have to catch him first.

But not if he couldn't get in touch with Irish, and Irish could always justify not keeping in touch with the office by repeating Doug's own words. “Get the hell out of here and don't let me hear from you.”

At least he hadn't said, “Don't let me hear
about
you.”

It was semantics and it wouldn't wash, and Irish knew it. But at least he didn't have to disobey a direct command. It might not save his career, but neither would ignoring a call on his vacation be a court-martial offense.

He had absolutely no intention of leaving Amy Mallory to fend for herself. He still couldn't avoid the very real possibility that he might well be responsible for starting the chain of events. That made it essential that he take care of it.

She had, though, done a pretty good job of taking care of herself. He hadn't been flattering her when he said she had probably saved his life.

He couldn't forget that, and now her life, her future, was more important than his grandfather's reputation or the mystery surrounding the train. He knew only that their lives were now intimately linked.

Once the detective reluctantly gave his permission, Irish packed her suitcase, grabbed the food for the dog, and left. He would return for the laptop and boxes, he said. He thought about taking them with him, but he had several errands, and her possessions would undoubtedly be safer with law enforcement than in an empty motel room.

The water in the bathroom was still running when he returned. He put the clothes on one of the two double beds.

He looked at the messed bed, and remembered those few glorious moments. He couldn't remember when he'd last felt the emotions he'd experienced then. Amy Mallory had a combination of innocence and passion that was incredibly appealing.

He felt things he hadn't felt in a very long time. Tenderness. He had wanted to give as much as take.

Irish shook his head. He had to be careful. She was vulnerable now. Extraordinarily vulnerable. He shouldn't have given into temptation earlier, but it had been so spontaneous, so completely natural, so irresistible.…

And unfair to her. He knew that. He would have to keep his zipper closed. Then, perhaps when they knew each other better, when danger wasn't an aphrodisiac.…

But even then she would have to understand the ground rules. He'd decided years ago that his career and marriage would never mesh, and Amy, he sensed, was a forever kind of woman. She'd had enough pain during the past several weeks without him adding to it.