Depth Perception (27 page)

And then there was Nat Jennings. She was heat and ice and sharp edges rolled into one very intriguing package. A beautiful woman with haunting eyes and a broken heart. A vixen with the kind of body that would never give a man any peace. She was all the things he didn't need in his life.

But she was exactly what he wanted.

Nick hadn't intended to kiss her. He sure as hell hadn't expected the explosion of heat that followed. He knew that kind of heat could burn a man to embers if he wasn't careful. He wasn't looking to get burned again. All he wanted were a few laughs and some no-strings-attached. sweaty, raunchy sex.

Lots and lots of sweaty. raunchy sex.

But he knew Nat Jennings wasn't a no-strings-attached kind of woman. She was complicated and troubled and dealing with the kind of grief that would have crushed a lesser person. While Nick could sympathize, he wanted no part of it.

He'd just finished drying the last mug when a commotion at the door caught his attention. He looked up to see Andy Hobbs rush in looking like he'd just had a close encounter with Bigfoot. A cane farmer, Andy was tall and thin with mussed red hair and skin the color of a cooked shrimp.

Nick watched him approach the bar, searching his memory for the man's drink of choice. "Bourbon straight up?"

"Make it a double." Andy raked his hand through his hair. "I'da been here twenty minutes ago, but there's a accident a couple of miles down the road."

Nick poured bourbon from the bottle and tried to look interested. "Anyone hurt?"

"Doggone car went down the embankment straight into Miller's Pond.”

"Deep pond." Nick knew because he'd skinny-dipped there as a teenager. "Any idea who it was?"

"That woman who kilt her kid. Drove her Mustang right into the water. Car went down like a goddamn tank. They got a wrecker out there, trying to get it out, but it's muddy as hell. Gonna need a winch." He leaned close, his eyes glinting with some forbidden knowledge. “Probably some kind of weird suicide thing. You know, she slit her wrists right there in the jail cell after killin' her husband and baby. I swear to the good Lord, I don't know why they didn't string that woman up when they had the chance."

Nick's heart was pounding when he shoved away from the bar and started toward the kitchen. He worked off the apron as he passed by the ice machine, then hit the double doors with both hands. Rita looked up from where she'd been loading mugs into the dishwasher. Mike Pequinot made eye contact with him from his office where he was at the desk, counting cash.

"I have to go." Nick tossed the apron at Rita. "Take over for me."

She caught the apron with one hand. "Sure."

Mike hobbled out of the office. "What's up?"

"Accident. Car went into Miller's Pond."

"Know who it was?"

Nick could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. He could feel his breaths coming too fast. Disbelief and a terrible ache grinding his guts into pieces.

Pequinot was looking at him oddly.

"Nat Jennings," he heard himself say.

"She okay?" Rita asked.

"I don't know,” Nick said and started for the door.

Chapter 21

Nick pushed the truck to a treacherous sixty miles per hour on the narrow gravel road. All the while, Andy Hobbs's words rang in his head like some terrible mantra.

"That woman who kilt her kid ... car went down like a tank ... some kind of weird suicide . . ."

His only thought was that Nat couldn't be dead. There was too much life inside her. Too much determination to bring a killer to justice. There was no way he would believe she'd deliberately driven her Mustang into the water.

The accident had occurred just two miles from The Blue Gator. There was one police cruiser on the scene, its red-and- blue strobe flashing off the tree branches and shaggy Spanish moss. Nick brought the truck to a skidding halt behind the cruiser and jammed it into Park. Ahead, Bill Beamer's old pickup was blocking the road, its diesel engine rumbling and filling the air with exhaust. Two other cars he didn't recognize were parked haphazardly along the muddy shoulder.

Nick left the truck and hit the gravel running. There was no ambulance. No paramedics. A cruel voice inside his head reminded him that ambulances and paramedics didn't show up if the victim was dead ....

Cutting the thought off cold, he looked around and spotted Bill Beamer standing on the shoulder of the road. He was holding a flashlight, its beam illuminating the small body of water fifteen feet down the embankment.

''Where is she?" Nick demanded.

Bill shook his head, and for a terrible instant, Nick thought he was going to tell him she was dead. "I swear anybody can get outta that water has nine lives." He pointed toward his truck, where a small figure was leaning against the fender, huddled in a blanket.

Nick had never been an emotional man. He'd learned at a young age that it was better to feel nothing than to feel too much. As a man, he'd learned that emotions were his enemy. That they made a smart man do stupid things, a strong man weak. But seeing Nat standing against that car safe and alive yanked those emotions out of their deep, dark cave. They burgeoned inside him until he thought he would choke on them. Relief. Gratitude. All of it laced by the cold, hard knowledge that at some point he had begun to care for her.

Unable to think about the repercussions of that now, he left Bill and jogged across the road. Even from several yards away he could see the dark stain of blood on her forehead. She was trembling violently, her clothes soaked and dripping.

"Nat. Are you hurt?"

She looked up at the sound of his voice. The sight of blood on her face jolted him, scared the hell out of him. But he was even more frightened by her lack of color. She looked like a ghost. Her eyes were large and dark and seemed too big for her face. He could hear her teeth chattering, see her arms and legs shaking.

"My car is totaled," she said.

Shock, he thought, and went to her. "Cars can be replaced." He stopped just short of touching her, knowing if he did, he might not be able to stop. "Where are you hurt?"

"J-just c-cold."

"You were inside the car when it went into the water?"

She jerked her head once.

Shaken by the knowledge of what could have happened, he let his gaze skim over her, looking for tom clothes, bruises, any sign of pain. "Has anyone checked you out? A paramedic? EMT?"

"No."

"Are you in any pain?"

"My head. My knee. Come to think of it, everything hurts except my teeth." She touched her left temple, then stared at the blood on her fingertips as if surprised. "I'm bleeding."

Setting his hands gently on her shoulders, he turned her to face him. Her entire body was vibrating. In the light of the headlights, he could see the gash on her left temple. It was deep and bleeding freely. "You're cut."

“I must have hit the side window." She gave him a weak smile. "My mama always said I had a bard head."

“I don't think she meant that literally." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the bandanna he'd taken out of the dryer just that morning and folded it into a small, fat square. She winced when he pressed it against the cut. "You want to sit down?"

"No. I'm okay." But the way she was clutching the blanket around her shoulders belied the words.

"Were you unconscious at any point?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No. Just scared shitless."

Reaching out, he lifted the blanket, set it higher on her shoulders. But it was too wet to be of much help, so he used it to pull her to him. "Let's see if we can get you warmed up."

"People will think we're embracing."

"We are." Wrapping his arms around her, be pulled her flush against him. hoping to use his body heat to stave off hypothermia, He could feel water soaking through his shirt and the front of his jeans, but he didn't care. At the moment all he cared about was holding her, feeling the strong thrust of her heart against his. He wanted to kiss her, too, but he didn't think that was what either of them needed at the moment, so he didn't.

"I'm glad you're okay," he said.

"Me, too."

"What happened?"

"Someone forced me off the road."

Shock rippled through him. He eased her to arm's length and searched her gaze. ''Deliberately?''

She explained how the SUV had crashed into her car. “The next thing I know I'm going down the embankment and heading straight for the water--"

 "Or maybe you had a little bit too much alcohol down at The Gator."

Nick looked up to see Matt Duncan walking toward them and felt his hackles go up. Of all the cops that could have been on duty, Matt was the most likely to cause problems. He had a small mind and a mean streak, and the uniform gave him a free pass to exercise both of those things at will.

"She wasn't at The Gator," Nick said. "She needs an ambulance."

"Step away from her, Bastille."

"She's nearly hypothermic," he said. "Going into shock."

"Or maybe she got drunk and ran off the road and you don't want me finding out about it."

Nick took a step toward him. "Look at her. Damn it, her face is cut."

Duncan held his ground. "This is a police matter. Get the fuck away from her, or I'll cuff you and haul your jailbird ass into town for interfering with an accident investigation."

"Nick. It's okay." Nat moved between the two men, then turned to Duncan. "I haven't been drinking, Matt. I swear. Someone forced me off the road. An SUV. Dark. Big."

Nick's hands clenched into fists when the deputy's gaze slid down the front of her. Her clothes were soaked and clinging, outlining every curve. The blanket she'd had over her shoulders had slipped, and her nipples were visible through her bra and T-shirt.

Matt Duncan licked his lips. "Yeah, we get wrecks out on this road every weekend when some idiot gets drunk and drives his truck into the ditch." He ran his eyes over her again. "I swear I smell alcohol on you."

Fury coursed through Nick at the thought of Duncan abusing his position as a cop. The urge to put the other man on the ground was powerful. But six years inside Angola had taught him to choose his battles carefully when it came to law enforcement types, and he knew this was a battle he would lose.

"She's injured and needs an ambulance," Nick said. "She needs a blanket."

Duncan eyed Nat. "Are you injured?"

"Just the cut on my temple," she said.

Rage coiled inside Nick when Duncan removed his cuffs from his belt. "Why don't you turn around for me nice and easy, Miss Jennings."

She gaped at the cuffs. "Why are you cuffing me? I didn't do anything wrong."

"This is for my protection and yours." Amusement glinted in his eyes. "Now turn around and give me your hands while I investigate this situation and make sure there was no traffic infraction or DUI involved."

Nick shot her a hard look. "where's your phone? This jackass is out of control,"

Nat closed her eyes. "It's in the car."

Cursing beneath his breath, Nick looked around. Most of the onlookers had gone down the embankment to have a look at the accident site. He needed a phone but didn't want to leave Nat alone with Duncan. He didn't trust the other man not to cross a line.

"Looks like you've got people walking all over your crime scene, Duncan," Nick said.

"It'll keep." Duncan took Nat by her biceps and turned her so that her back was to him. "Now give me your hands."

Nat's gaze warned Nick to stay away as Duncan cuffed her. But Nick could feel the rage and frustration building into something ugly and huge. He'd known too many men like Duncan in his lifetime, and he knew if he turned his back, Duncan would be all over her. Nick swore that was the one line he wouldn't let him cross.

"Can't you see she needs an ambulance?" Nick said.

Duncan pointed at Nick. "You keep your distance."

"You have no cause to cuff her," Nick said.

Duncan looked from Nick to Nat and then grinned. "Well, if I didn't know better, I'd say you had a thing for her, Bastille.” He skimmed his finger over her shoulder. "She is kind of hot, isn't she?"

"Cut it out," Nat snapped, but Nick's voice dwarfed hers.

"Get your goddamn hands off her."

"Watch your mouth, farm boy. I'm the law in this town and if you give me any lip, I'll kick your hick ass from here to Sunday. You got that?"

"You lay a hand on her, and I'll make you regret it."

Duncan laughed, but it was an ugly, humorless sound. "How long were you in for, anyway, Bastille? Six years? That how long it's been since you had any pussy? I hear most guys give it up after that long. They get desperate and give someone their ass. Did you give it up, Bastille? Huh?"

Nick knew Duncan was baiting him. He knew if he lost his temper and went after him, he would go to jail and ultimately wind up back in Angola. He was on parole, and Duncan knew it. Because he had been a model prisoner, Nick had only served six years of his twelve-year sentence. One of the conditions of parole, however, was that he not be arrested for any reason.

But he could feel the fury coursing through his system, dumping adrenaline until he was shaking with it. His muscles twitched as he envisioned himself grabbing Duncan by the lapels, slamming him against the car, and pounding his face into hamburger until his own fists were bloody.

"Fuck you," Nick said.

Grinning, Duncan took Nat's arm and forced her toward his cruiser. Nick trailed them, his heart pounding. With her hands cuffed behind her back, she was completely vulnerable. He knew if Duncan put her in his cruiser, things were going to get ugly. He knew it would cost him. But there was no way he could let the other man assault her. It would be her word against his. With Nat's reputation, Nick figured Duncan would probably get away with it.

"You got your driver's license and proof of insurance?" Duncan asked Nat.

"They're in my purse, still in the car."

"Well, you're just chalking up charges left and right, aren't you, sweet thing?" Duncan tsked. "It just so happens that I'm feeling charitable tonight. Maybe we can work something out."