Everything But The Truth (8 page)

His dark eyes narrowed, zooming in on her. “Why are you grilling me like this?”

She lifted a brow. “Why are you afraid to answer the question?”

“Yes,” he blurted. “Yes, I wanted to kiss you. Satisfied?”

“So,” she said, shrugging and pretending to be unaffected by his admission, “why didn’t you?” She couldn’t believe she was being so bold with her questions. She had several years experience with teens and young women, but she’d never counseled an adult male before. Not that she was counseling him, but it sure felt like it.

“I think you know the answer to that,” he said, dropping his hands to rest on the arms of the chair.

Yes, she knew. He didn’t kiss her because he thought she was a hooker. But, what she really wanted to know was why he had “almost” kissed her. Rather than ask him though, she decided to let the matter drop.

Instead, she asked, “Why do you have this personal vendetta against hookers?”

He clenched his fists and released them, his eyes two dark pools of anger. “I trusted one once. A woman who called herself Misty. Misty Harbor,” he snorted, as if it were the stupidest name he’d ever heard.

Peyton wanted to remind him that was exactly the way he’d reacted when she’d told him her name was Pepper.
Misty Harbor
, she repeated to herself. She thought it was sort of poetic, but since he wouldn’t be interested in what she thought, she decided to keep it to herself. “What happened?”

“She lied to me,” he said, his voice rising an octave. “She set me up. She was supposed to have arranged a meeting between me and a John she’d been seeing regularly. My partner took a bullet meant for me and almost died that night. It was Matt Brozack.”

Her mouth dropped open. Softly, she said, “So, that’s why you owe him a favor.” It was a statement, not a question. “That’s why you agreed to help me.”

“Yes,” he said, getting to his feet. “And that’s the only reason.”

****

Reeve sat at the kitchen table, playing solitaire to pass the time away. He’d been at it for hours now. While he’d been playing, Peyton had skimmed a dozen or so magazines, dusted the furniture in the living room, and washed the picture window in the living room, inside and out, until it had sparkled. Then she’d taken a second shower. She was antsy, but as long as she didn’t start whining and complaining, Reeve could deal with her restlessness.

Working as a cop had taught him patience. Many a night, he and Matt had worked stake-outs. Nothing was more boring than that—playing gin rummy on the front seat of their vehicle, telling raunchy jokes and drinking cold coffee all through the night. The only payback was when you made the arrest, but seldom had that ever happened. After all their hard work, a couple of black and whites had usually made the collar. The lucky bastards.

Strolling into the kitchen, her hair still damp from her shower, Peyton announced, “I’m going for a walk.”

Without looking up from the table, he said, “No, you’re not.” He turned over three cards and made his plays.

“Am I some kind of prisoner?” she asked. In spite of her outward reserve, a hint of exasperation came into her voice.

“You could say that.”

“I’d like to walk down to see Stacy,” she said, taking the seat adjacent to his. She rested her elbows on the table and sighed, giving him a whiff of toothpaste breath.

Reeve turned over an Ace and placed it above the row of cards. “As soon as I finish my game, I’ll walk you down.”

“I don’t need you to walk me down. I know the way.”

Turning toward her, he said, “I can hardly protect you if you’re wandering around the woods by yourself. Now, can I?”

Tilting her head, she seemed to study his face for a moment before looking away. “The ten of hearts,” she said.

“What?”

“You have a play.” She moved closer, bumping her shoulder against his. “The ten of hearts on the Jack of spades.”

“I saw it,” he said curtly, picking up the ten and breathing in her ‘fresh as a daisy’ scent. Grimacing, he wondered where the hell that thought had come from.

“The three of clubs,” she said next, picking it up and placing it on top of the two, as her skin brushed against his again.

He blew out a long frustrated breath, swooped the cards into a pile and straightened them. “Let’s go,” he said, scraping the legs of his chair against the linoleum and standing. He couldn’t concentrate with her that close to him. She was a hooker, he reminded himself, and he shouldn’t be attracted to her. But he was.

“I was only trying to help,” she said, sounding offended.

“I don’t need any help.” He shoved the deck of cards back into the red and white box. “Especially from you,” he mumbled.

Abruptly, she got to her feet and balled her small fists at her hips. Standing only inches away, her face was close to his. “You mean because I’m a hooker?” Her eyes glowed with a fierce inner fire. She was spoiling for a fight.

“No, that’s not what I—”

“Yes, it is. Why can’t you forget about that?” she demanded in a shrill voice. “Why can’t you just treat me like a person? Why can’t you see what’s on the inside, instead of looking for reasons to dislike me?”

Staring at her with his mouth open, he felt paralyzed. Didn’t she realize he couldn’t forget who she was? What she did for a living? He couldn’t get past it. Because if he did, then he’d see what he wanted to see. A woman he wanted to kiss so badly, he ached with the need.

The telephone rang, saving him from either kissing her or insulting her further. Turning away from her, he went to the kitchen wall and picked up the receiver. “Yeah?”

“Hey, buddy.” Matt’s voice was a welcome sound.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“How’s it going?”

Reeve was relieved to hear Matt’s voice. He hadn’t expected him to call yet. Maybe that meant he’d be rid of Peyton sooner than he thought.

“Everything’s fine,” he said.

Keeping her eyes trained on him, Peyton dropped back into her chair and waited patiently while he talked to Matt.

“Good. Hey, I’m gonna relieve you of that package,” Matt said. “I’m sending someone in first thing tomorrow morning to pick it up. A cop by the name of Jameson. I don’t know if you ever met him. Big guy, red hair, looks like a linebacker?”

Jameson?
Something sounded familiar about the name, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “If I did, I don’t remember. Why aren’t you sending in a marshal?” he asked, feeling apprehensive about turning her over to someone he didn’t know and wasn’t sure could be trusted.

“Jameson will pick it up and then he’s turning it over to a federal marshal tomorrow afternoon. It was Captain Murphy’s idea.”

He remembered Carl Murphy. The man was a jerk. How he’d ever made it to captain was beyond him.

“Okay, sure,” he agreed, not really having a choice in the matter. He wasn’t a cop anymore and was only doing a favor for Matt. If Matt didn’t have a problem with it, then neither should he.

Replacing the receiver, he found Peyton watching him expectantly. “Good news,” he said. “You only have about twenty more hours to put up with me. You’re getting out of here in the morning.”

He’d expected her to jump up and down, or at least
say
something. Instead, she simply stared back at him. A glazed look of despair began to spread over her face, her misery so acute it was as if he’d just told her that her best friend had died.

Although he hated to admit it, inwardly he felt the same way. For some odd reason, he didn’t want to see her go. If that just didn’t beat all.

Chapter Eight

Peyton took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She was leaving in the morning. After tomorrow, she’d probably never have to see Reeve Sinclair’s smug face again. She should be gleefully happy, dancing with joy, but that wasn’t how she felt at all.

Reeve had explained the phone call and about the cop coming to escort her from the cabin. Suddenly, she didn’t want to leave. She felt safe with him, in spite of his bad manners and surly attitude. Besides, he was growing on her.

“What if this is some kind of set-up?” she asked, thinking about what had happened in the hotel garage. Her pulse skittered alarmingly, and her hands began to shake. “How do you know you can trust this man Jameson? I saw a cop show once where—”

“Peyton,” he said, stopping her, “you’re going to be okay. Trust me, I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Smiling weakly, she said, “I know that.” She truly believed him.

“And you’ve got to stop believing everything you see on TV. You’re more liable to get hit by a bus than…”

“Than what?” she asked. “Than get shot by a hit man?”

“A hit man? What makes you think the guys who shot Matt and tried to kill you are hit men?”

“I just assumed,” she said quickly.

“If these guys were hit men, you’d already be dead.”

She gasped and Reeve frowned, coming to stand behind her and resting his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Poor choice of words. Look, Peyton, these guys who work for Carlos Santini are bumbling idiots. We just have to stay one step ahead of them, and you’ll be fine.” He squeezed and kneaded her muscles, attempting to soothe her nerves. She closed her eyes and tried to relax.

Only it wasn’t Carlos Santini who was after her. It was Sonny Donatelli and his hit men.

Reeve was right. She had to stop thinking about bad men, and guns, and Father Mike. It would only unnerve her.

“Maybe we should go for that walk,” he suggested, his voice deceptively calm. “We can stop in and say hello to the Lutzs.”

“Okay,” she agreed, then added, “I wonder if they have plans for dinner. If not, maybe the four of us could go on a picnic.”

“Sure. If that’s what you want. I’ll even fry some chicken.”

He sounded much too congenial, but she certainly wasn’t about to question him. Whatever his reason, it didn’t matter to her. All that mattered now was that this was her last day with him, and then he’d be out of her life forever. Now, why didn’t that make her happy?

****

Sonny’s private line was ringing, and he picked it up to find Nick Montero on the other end. “You’d better have good news,” he barked into the receiver.

“Yes, Mr. Donatelli,” Nick said. “Remember I mentioned following Brozack’s grandfather to that cabin in the Catskills?”

Sonny sighed loudly. “What about it?”

“Well, I think the Delaney broad is there.”

“Well, take care of her then.”

“It’s already been arranged. Jameson’s on it.”

“Good. You’d better not disappoint me again, Nick,” he warned, then slammed down the receiver.

“Stupid broad,” he mumbled. He’d teach her to stick her nose where it didn’t belong.

****

They picked a shady spot to have their picnic. Reeve sat next to Peyton, resting his back against the bark of an old oak tree and stared out at the small lake. It was calm, quiet. In another day or two, there would be several fisherman trying their luck, but he and Peyton would be gone by then.

While they munched on fried chicken, last night’s potato salad and Stacy’s homemade chocolate chip cookies, he racked his brain, trying to remember why Jameson’s name sounded so familiar.

There were a few cops, about three years ago, who’d been brought up on charges for tampering with evidence, but later the case had been dismissed for some reason. A witness had died, or something like that.
Had one of the cops been Jameson?
Is that where I’ve heard the name before?

If so, why would Matt trust this guy? Unless the charges had been bogus to begin with.

That was probably it. Criminals were always accusing cops of something or other, in order to take the spotlight off them.

“More wine, anyone?” Stacy asked, uncorking a bottle of Chardonnay.

“Not for me,” Reeve said.

He needed to be sharp tonight, alert, although he kept telling himself everything was going to be fine. But still, there was something bothering him. If only he could figure out what it was.

“I’ll have a little more,” Peyton said, holding her clear plastic cup out so Stacy could fill it.

Reeve wanted her sharp too, but didn’t bother to say anything. He’d only frighten her, and then she’d probably ask so many questions, he wouldn’t be able to think straight. Although he’d tried to convince her these guys were just bumbling idiots—and they were—the fact of the matter was, they still wanted her dead.

He watched as she settled back on the blanket next to him, her arm and leg bumping his. Earlier, she’d kicked off her shoes and tossed them aside. The scuffed red heels had become her signature, and he was going to miss seeing them. Almost as much as he’d miss seeing her.

Get a grip, Sinclair
. He needed to get back to his life. Back to Kevin and the tavern. Once back in Albany, Peyton would be out of sight, and out of mind. Even as he told himself this, he didn’t believe it. He knew he wouldn’t be able to forget her as easily as that.

An ant ran over Peyton’s big toe. She wiggled her foot and laughed softly, then watched as the bug scrambled away to safety.

“It probably smelled all this delicious food,” she said, defending the critter.

“Speaking of delicious,” Stacy said, in between bites, “you have to give me the recipe for your potato salad, Peyton.”

Peyton flushed, glancing up at Reeve. “I have a confession. Reeve made the potato salad. My only contribution was to dice the celery and onion and sprinkle in a few spices.”

Remembering the way they’d worked side-by-side in the kitchen yesterday afternoon, Reeve smiled. She’d actually followed orders, doing everything he said, without arguing. Once, she’d even joked and said, “You’re the boss.” Although he hadn’t believed her for a minute.

He noticed the way she began to relax as she sipped at her wine. Her shoulder leaned into his, her hair brushing against his arm, and heat radiated from her body and seeped into his. She pushed a wayward strand of red hair from her face and dropped her hand to the blanket, her fingers touching his. She made no effort to move her hand away.

Stacy leaned back against her husband’s chest. Jared welcomed her into his embrace, rubbing absently at her swollen belly and planting tiny kisses along the back of her neck and the top of her shoulder.

Reeve envied them. They looked so happy together. For a brief moment, he thought about Emily, but quickly abandoned all thoughts.
Don’t even go there
.

“It’ll be dark soon,” he said, wanting to break up their little party and get back to the cabin where he could think. He stood and helped Peyton to her feet.

The four of them packed up the leftovers and started back toward their cabins. When Peyton told Stacy she and Reeve were leaving in the morning, he’d thought Stacy was going to cry she was so disappointed. He’d noticed the glistening tears in Peyton’s eyes as well. Stopping by the Brozack cabin, the women exchanged addresses and hugged one last time.

Later that night, Reeve sat out on the deck, gathering his thoughts in the darkness when Peyton stuck her head out the door, interrupting his thinking.

“Are you coming in soon?” she asked.

“In a little while.”

The screen door squeaked as it opened, and the deck boards creaked and shifted with her weight. She sat on the step next to him and hugged her knees. “Look at all those stars,” she said, looking up at the ink blue sky.

Reeve glanced up, wondering when he’d last taken the time to look at a star-lit sky. He couldn’t remember, it had been so long ago. Probably when Emily was still alive.

“I just wanted to thank you again for helping me.”

He nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow,” she said. “That should make you happy.”

Yes, it should, he agreed silently, but for some reason, it didn’t.

“Well,” she said on a sigh, “I should get to bed. My things are gathered, in case Jameson comes early…” Her voice trailed off and she stood.

He heard the screen door open and slap shut. “Reeve?” she said.

He turned around to face her.

“I was just going to say that I wanted to kiss you last night, too.”

He sat there, motionless, a million thoughts buzzing through his head and none of them making sense. All he could think to say was, “Good night, Peyton.”

And then she was gone.

He sat there for some time, alone with his thoughts, until something struck him odd. Getting to his feet, he began pacing, then went inside to wake Peyton. He intended to get some answers. The truth this time.

****

“Sonny Donatelli,” Reeve said, pacing the living room floor. He ran a hand through his dark hair and swore. “Dammit, Peyton, why didn’t you tell me about him?”

Peyton wrapped her arms around her legs and leaned back into the sofa. “I don’t know. I just thought the less you knew the safer I’d be.”

He stopped pacing and speared her with a chilling look, then shook his head and swore again. “How in hell am I supposed to keep you safe when I don’t know who or what I’m up against?”

Swallowing hard, Peyton merely stared up at him. He’d waken her from a sound sleep demanding answers. She’d finally told him about finding Father Mike and the men who had chased her.

“Is there anything else you haven’t told me?” he asked.

“No,” she said quickly.
Except that I’m not a hooker.
As much as she wanted to tell him the rest of the truth, she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. He was too angry. Admitting she’d been lying to him about that, too, would only push him over the edge. Besides, after tomorrow morning, she was never going to see him again. By the time he found out the truth, she’d be miles away. Hopefully.

Reeve dropped down on the sofa beside her and looked into her eyes. “Peyton, do you trust me?”

I don’t know,
she wanted to scream.
I don’t know who to trust anymore.
“Yes,” she said, realizing she meant it.

“Good,” he said, “because here’s what I want you to do…”

****

It was just after three in the morning when Reeve heard a noise outside. He sank back into the sofa cushions, hoping the intruder wouldn’t notice him in the dark.

He watched as the front door slowly opened, and a dark figure entered the living room. Then, pointing his gun at the shape, he flipped on the lamp beside him.

“Jameson, I presume?”