Return to Mystic Lake (2 page)

Jackson picked up one of the long-stem glasses and sniffed the contents. “Fruity... I smell a touch of cherry and plum and a faint dash of damp leather. Pinot noir would be my guess.” He set the glass back on the table as Marjorie stared at him in astonishment.

“There’s a bottle of pinot noir open on the kitchen counter,” she replied in surprise.

Jackson nodded. “Like a good Southern gentleman, I know my wines, although I definitely prefer a good glass of bourbon or brandy, and preferably with a lovely lady by my side.”

“But, of course,” she replied dryly.

He frowned at the coffee table. “So, it appears our two missing souls were seated here sharing what appears to be cocktail time together.”

“And something happened to interrupt their intimate little party,” Marjorie said.

“So it seems.” Jackson turned away from the coffee table and his gaze swept around the room. “No sign of a struggle. What have we here?” Nearly hidden at the edge of one of the pillows was a small black purse. He opened it and pulled out a cell phone, a wallet and a tube of lipstick.

Marjorie’s heart tumbled a little lower in her chest as she watched him open up the slender wallet. Inside was Amberly’s identification, thirty-two dollars and two credit cards.

“If somebody came in here to confront the two, it wasn’t anybody with robbery on their mind,” he said, his voice that low Southern drawl that Marjorie found both irritating and evocatively inviting at the same time.

He placed the items back in the purse. “We’ll take that phone to your techies at the bureau and see if they can find anything useful. Maybe somebody called and the two of them rushed out of here on an emergency.”

“Amberly would have let John know,” Marjorie replied with conviction.

He walked from the coffee table toward the kitchen area, his footsteps surprisingly heavy for a man who appeared so physically fit and agile.

She followed him into the kitchen, where she knew he would find nothing suspicious, nothing that might indicate what exactly had happened to Cole and Amberly.

She leaned a slender hip against the cabinet and watched as he checked the back door, opened drawers and cabinets that were mostly empty. He pulled a small notepad and pen from the pocket of his pristine white shirt and took some notes.

He might be an arrogant, smooth-talking pain in her butt, but he also appeared to be thorough and detail driven, and that was the only thing important to her in this case. Nothing else mattered, as long as he was as good at his job as he looked in his expensive white shirt and the tailored black slacks that fit him to perfection. He wore his gun and holster on a sleek leather belt around his waist, looking both lethal and sexy at the same time.

From the minute she had joined the FBI, nothing had mattered but the job and caretaking for her mother. This particular case hit too close to home, with a fellow FBI agent gone missing.

“Let’s take a look at the rest of the house,” he finally said when he’d finished checking out the kitchen.

“There isn’t much here. Two bedrooms have already been emptied of all the furniture, and there’s just a bed and a dresser left in the master suite.”

His footsteps thundered down the hallway, and he peeked into each room as they passed, finally stopping just inside the master bedroom.

“Smart man,” he said as he gazed at the bed with the navy bedspread. “He’s moved most of the furniture out but left a spot for foreplay in the family room and the bed to complete the night.” He turned to look at Marjorie and she was horrified to feel a warmth steal into her cheeks. Thank goodness he didn’t mention it.

“So, Amberly and Cole came here Friday night to pack things away, and Monday afternoon she didn’t show up to pick up her kid from school,” he continued. “Do you know if anyone spoke to either of them between those times?” he asked.

“When I left here to pick you up at the airport I had a couple of deputies and another FBI agent canvassing the neighborhood to find out the last time either of them was seen.”

She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and punched in a number. “Adam. Any news?” She listened to the report, acutely aware of Jackson’s gaze taking her in from head to toe.

The temperature inside the house was a comfortable one for the heat of the night, but as her new partner’s gaze slid down the length of her, she felt the atmosphere in the room climb at least ten degrees warmer.

“Thanks,” she said to FBI agent Adam Forest, and then hung up. “According to what the officers have been able to find out for now, the next-door neighbor, Charles Baker, saw Cole and Amberly arrive here just after five on Friday night. About seven that same night he saw Cole again when he mowed the lawn. Nobody saw either of them after that...at least that we’ve talked to so far.”

She watched him open the top drawer of the dresser. She hadn’t had a chance to check things out this thoroughly before leaving the scene earlier to pick him up at the airport.

“Unless Sheriff Cole Caldwell is an unusual man for a sheriff, he didn’t leave here of his own volition.” He pulled a handgun from the drawer, along with a gold badge. “No sheriff I know would take off without his weapon and the very thing that defines him.”

Every muscle in Marjorie’s body tensed at the sight of the items. She’d hoped that this was all some kind of a mistake, that little Max and his father had somehow misunderstood, and Cole and Amberly had gone off for a mini-honeymoon.

“So, is this like what you were working on in Bachelor Moon?” she asked Jackson.

“Too early for me to make that jump.” He left the bedroom and she hurried after him. He walked back into the great room and stared at the coffee table and the oversize pillows. “On the surface things look very similar to what I was working on in Bachelor Moon, but it would be a mistake for us to leap to any conclusions this early in the investigation.”

“I can take you to Amberly’s place now. I have a couple of officers sitting on it so that nothing is disturbed.”

Together they stepped outside, where they both removed their booties and gloves. “I’ll be honest with you—at the moment what I need is a good meal, a strong drink and a soft bed,” Jackson said.

“But we still need to go to Amberly’s,” Marjorie protested.

“That can wait until morning,” Jackson said. “Whatever happened to Sheriff Caldwell and his wife happened here, not at the house in Kansas City. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”

“Exactly,” Marjorie replied. “And we need to work through the night if that’s what it takes to get to the bottom of this.”

“It’s going to take more than a single night to get to the bottom of this,” Jackson said as he headed for her car.

She hurried after him, irritated by his lack of work ethic. She didn’t know how they solved crime in Louisiana, but they sure as heck didn’t do it in Kansas City by eating a good steak and finding a soft bed.

“But you know how important the first forty-eight hours are right after a crime,” she said as they got into her car.

“I know, but as far as I can figure, we’ve already lost our first forty-eight-hour window. My gut says they disappeared from here sometime Friday night, and here we are on Tuesday night. Besides, at this point all we have is two people not where they said they would be...nothing to indicate that an actual crime took place at all.”

“Trust me, if Amberly told Max she’d pick him up at school yesterday, nothing would have kept her away except something terrible,” Marjorie replied. “Max always came first with her.”

“Have you checked the local hospitals? Maybe one of them got sick and hasn’t had a chance to call.” He obviously read on her face that it hadn’t been done yet.

“Then that’s something you can take care of after you drop me off at whatever place I’m staying while I’m here in town.”

“You aren’t staying here in Mystic Lake. The director set you up in a motel in Kansas City. Don’t worry, there’s a restaurant right next door where you can feed your face.” She started the engine, fighting a new blast of irritation directed at him.

FBI agents didn’t work normal business hours. When in the middle of a case they worked until they physically couldn’t work any longer.

To make matters worse, as she began the drive back toward the city, not only did Special Agent Jackson Revannaugh fall asleep, but the car filled with his faint, deep snores.

She was livid that she’d put off beginning the official investigation until this Louisiana man had arrived. She was ticked off that somehow her director thought he could potentially add a valuable perspective on the crime.

As if fate hadn’t already delivered enough painful hits in her life, it had now delivered up to her the partner from hell.

Chapter Two

Jackson shot straight up in bed, his heart beating frantically as early-morning light shone through the half-closed curtains on the nearby window. It took him several minutes to process the nightmares that had haunted his sleep and a little more time to realize exactly where he was.

Kansas City...the Regent Motel. He muttered a curse as he saw the time. Six-thirty, and if he remembered right, Agent Uptight’s last words to him after dropping him off the night before were that she’d be here to pick him up at seven.

Coffee. He needed coffee to take away the lingering taste of the nightmares that had chased through his sleep. He spied a small coffeemaker on the vanity and waited for it to brew the single cup. While the coffee was brewing, he unlocked his motel room door just in case Marjorie showed up early.

Once the coffee was ready, he took a big swallow and then carried the cup into the bathroom and set it on the counter while he got into the shower.

He knew Marjorie was angry that he had called a halt to the night before, but he’d also known that he wouldn’t be any real asset to her unless he took the night to catch up on some sleep. The case in Bachelor Moon had nearly drained him dry, both physically and mentally, and he’d needed last night to transition, to prepare himself for this new investigation.

At least she’d been right—while the motel wasn’t five stars, it was adequate and there was a decent restaurant next door. He’d walked there last night and had enjoyed his first taste of Kansas City barbecue...a pulled-pork sandwich and the best onion rings he’d ever tasted.

Maybe it was the sweet, tangy sauce that had given him the nightmares, he thought as he turned off the water and stepped out of the enclosure.

His dreams had been haunted by Sam Connelly, his wife, Daniella, and their little girl, Macy—the missing family from Bachelor Moon, who had yet to be found. Dashing around the edges of the darkness had been two more figures who he knew in his dream were Cole Caldwell and his wife, Amberly. And then there had been his father.

Jerrod Revannaugh had no place in his dreams, just as he had no place in Jackson’s life. The bond between father and son had been fractured long ago and finally completely broken just a little over five years ago.

He shoved away any lingering thoughts of nightmares, especially images of the man who had raised him, and instead wrapped a towel around his waist and got out his shaving kit.

Jackson knew he was a handsome man. It wasn’t anything he thought much about, just a fact he saw when he looked in a mirror. He was simply the product of good genes.

He also knew he had a charm about him that drew women to him, and though he enjoyed an occasional liaison with a sophisticated woman who knew the score, he made certain they also knew he was merely after a brief encounter and not interested in matters of the heart.

He was definitely not his father’s son. He might look like Jerrod Revannaugh, and the two men might share the Revannaugh ability to charm, but Jackson would never be the coldhearted bastard that his father had been. He always made sure his partner knew the score, unlike his father who had spent his life taking advantage of naïve women.

While he found his new partner hot to look at, she had a prickly exterior that he had no interest in digging beneath. Besides, it wasn’t as if he anticipated Agent Marjorie Clinton jumping his bones. She’d made it fairly clear that she didn’t particularly like him and would tolerate him only in order to further the investigation.

He’d managed to razor off the shaving cream on half of his face when he heard a firm knock on his door. A glance at the clock by the nightstand showed him it was ten until seven. He knew she was the type to be early.

“Come on in,” he shouted, and heard the door open. He leaned out of the bathroom to see her standing just inside the door. “You’re early.”

She shot ramrod straight. Her eyes widened and then her gaze instantly dropped to the carpeting, as if unable to look at him. “And it appears that you’re going to be late. I’ll just wait for you out in the car.”

She ran out of the room like a rabbit being chased by a hound dog and slammed the door behind her. Jackson turned back to the mirror in amusement. He hadn’t exactly been naked, but she’d skedaddled out of the room like a virgin.

He quickly finished his shaving, slapped on some cologne, grabbed his white shirt and slacks—neatly pressed the night before and on hangers—and dressed.

He had a feeling the longer she sat in the car waiting for him, the more difficult the mood would be between them. He suspected it was already going to be a long day. Her being cranky with him would only make it longer.

It was exactly three minutes after seven when he slid into the passenger seat of her car and shut the door. “Sorry I’m late. The last thing I would ever want to do is keep a lovely lady waiting,” he said with a smile.

“Stuff it, Rhett. I’m uncharmable and you might as well stop trying.” She started the car and pulled out of the parking space in front of his unit.

“Why, Scarlett, I haven’t even begun to attempt to charm you yet,” he replied with his trademark lazy grin.

She frowned. “We have a busy day ahead. We checked all the hospitals last night both here in Kansas City and in Mystic Lake. Cole and Amberly aren’t in any of them. I’ve set up an interview with John Merriweather, Amberly’s ex-husband, after nine. He didn’t want us at his place until after Max had left for school. I’ve also directed a couple of agents to check what cases Amberly was working on, and the same with Cole. There are also some other people we need to interview before the day is done. I have a list in my briefcase.”

“Wow, you’ve been a busy little bee while I was getting my beauty sleep.”

She ignored his comment and continued, “The crime scene unit worked all night at Cole’s house and basically came up with nothing. No fingerprints other than Cole’s and Amberly’s, and no evidence that anyone else had been in the house.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Any chance of breakfast before we get started on this long day you have planned?”

She picked up a white paper bag that was between them on the console and tossed it into his lap. “Two bagels, one blueberry and one cinnamon raisin. I had a feeling you’d ask.”

“Gee, I didn’t know you cared.” He opened up the bag to discover not only the two bagels, but also two small cups of cream cheese and a plastic knife.

“I don’t,” she replied. “But it appears that your creature comforts are very important to you.”

“And your comforts aren’t important to you?” he asked as he spread cream cheese over half of the cinnamon raisin bagel.

“Of course they are, but not so much when I’m working on a hot, active case.”

“This is already at best a lukewarm case,” he replied.

As she had yesterday, she wore a white blouse, a pair of dark slacks and sensible shoes. Her hair was a spill of strawberry silk across her shoulders and she smelled of fresh vanilla and sweet flowers.

She appeared not to be wearing a bit of makeup, but that did nothing to detract from Jackson’s physical attraction to her. Chemistry... It was a whimsical animal that usually made a fool out of somebody.

He ate the bagel in four quick bites and wished for another cup of coffee to chase it down. But there was no way he intended to ask her to drive through the nearest coffee shop. He wasn’t about to push his luck.

“Last night was more about my survival than creature comforts,” he said soberly. “I’d been working nonstop on the case in Louisiana. Yesterday I’d had a plane ride from hell, no food to speak of all day and not enough brain power left to be adequate at my job. This could either be a sprint or a marathon, and I’m betting on a marathon, and so I needed last night to prepare myself for the long haul. Not that I owe you any explanations of my working habits or methods.”

He settled back in his seat and stared out the passenger window. “Now, tell me about this John Merriweather,” he said, deciding he was far better to focus on solving this crime than imagine what his partner might look like without her clothes.

* * *

M
ARJORIE
STOOD
JUST
INSIDE
Amberly’s living room, a homey space decorated with pottery and bright colors and woven rugs celebrating her Native American heritage.

The room smelled of sage and sunshine, and it was obvious that a little boy resided here. The bookcases held not only pottery, but also puzzles and children’s books about horses and dinosaurs. A large plastic dump truck sat next to the coffee table, the bed filled with tiny army men.

Jackson prowled the room like a well-educated burglar, with booties and gloves to leave no evidence that he’d ever been here. As he moved, she tried not to think about that moment when she’d walked into his motel room and he’d leaned out of the bathroom with just the thin white towel hanging low on his slim hips.

His bare chest, sleekly muscled and bronzed, had been more than magnificent. As she’d gotten that glimpse of it, for a long moment she’d forgotten how to breathe, and she hadn’t been able to get the unwanted image out of her head.

He stopped and stared at the large painting above the fireplace. It depicted Amberly as an Indian princess on horseback. Her long dark hair emphasized doe eyes and high cheekbones. She was wild beauty captured on canvas.

Jackson turned to look at Marjorie at the same time she self-consciously shoved a strand of her hair behind an ear. “She’s quite beautiful,” he said, and then added, with a twinkle in his eyes, “But I much prefer blondes with just a hint of strawberry in their hair.”

“Does it just come naturally to you? Kind of like breathing?” she asked sarcastically.

“Yeah, just like breathing,” he replied with a genuine grin that warmed her despite her aggravation with him. He turned back to the painting. “Painted by her ex-husband?”

“Yes, John painted it.” She’d already told him that John Merriweather was a famous painter who was known for Western settings and beautiful Native American portraits. Most of the Native women he painted looked like his ex-wife. She’d read an article in some magazine where John had talked about how Amberly was his muse.

“How did John take their divorce?” Jackson turned back to look at her.

She shrugged. “According to the local gossip, initially he took it rather hard. But I think they had become more like friends than husband and wife. Amberly once mentioned to me that John’s greatest passion was his painting.”

Jackson frowned. “I love my work, but I save my passion for living, breathing people.”

Women. She knew he meant women. Not that it mattered to her what Jackson Revannaugh’s personal passion might be. “Are you married?” The question fell from her lips before it had even formed in her head.

“No, and have no intention of ever getting married. My problem is that I love all women, but I’ve never found one who I haven’t tired of after a week or so.”

“So, you are a player,” she said, having already suspected as much.

His blue eyes held an open honesty she wasn’t sure she could believe. “On the contrary, I only date women who know I’m looking for a passing good time and nothing more serious. I don’t toy with hearts or emotions. And now, shall we get back to the case?” He lifted a dark eyebrow wryly.

Heat warmed Marjorie’s cheeks in an unmistakable blush. Thankfully he didn’t comment on it but rather moved from the living room into the kitchen.

He hadn’t even asked her if she was married or if she had a boyfriend. He probably thought she was too much of a witch to hold a man’s attention for more than a minute.

She was, and that was the way she wanted it. She had enough on her plate with her job and helping to pay for the fancy apartment where her mother lived and believed she was still a wealthy heiress.

She didn’t have time for men. She’d had one brief relationship years ago and he’d turned out to be untrustworthy, as she’d come to believe most men were. She’d been through enough men with her mother, seen what they were capable of, especially the handsome ones full of charm. Nope, she had already decided she’d eventually get a cat, but there would never be a man in the small house where she lived.

Of course, that didn’t mean she would never have sex again. Like Jackson, if she did she’d just have to make it clear to her partner that she was a one-night stand—not a forever—kind of woman.

She snapped her attention back to realize Jackson had left the kitchen. It was easy to follow the sound of his heavy footsteps down the hallway to the bedrooms.

Focus on the job,
she reprimanded herself, irritated that Jackson had somehow managed to throw her off her normal game, and she’d been working with him less than two hours this morning.

It took them only minutes to check out the bedrooms and return to the living room. “There doesn’t appear to be anything here to tie into whatever happened at Cole’s house in Mystic Lake,” he said. “I think it’s time we go talk to John Merriweather.”

“He lives less than two blocks away.” She checked her watch. It was a quarter after nine. Max would have already left for school and John would be waiting for them.

Within minutes they pulled into the driveway of John Merriweather’s neat ranch house. Although John was a respected artist whose work was both expensive and in constant demand, he had remained in the house where he and Amberly had lived as a married couple over five years ago.

“John and Amberly lived here together when they were married,” she explained to Jackson. “When they divorced, Amberly bought her house close by so that Max could stay near his father.”

“Do they have a court-ordered child custody agreement?” Jackson asked.

“Not that I know of. I think they just winged it and it worked for them.”

“We’ll see if it was really working out that well, especially when a new man entered the picture,” Jackson replied as he got out of the car. “I’ll do the interview with him,” he said in a clipped tone she hadn’t heard before.

She hurried after him, wondering when she’d lost control as lead investigator. She’d allow Jackson to have his moment now, but then she would remind him that this was her case, and he’d simply been invited in to help.