Roan (22 page)

After a moment, he went on. “When we were young, twelve or thirteen, I used to help Carolyn sneak out of the house so that her dad couldn't find her and beat her when he came home drunk. It was worse on Friday nights, so we'd camp out in the fort we built down by the river. Carolyn was a bookworm. She lived in a sort of fairy-tale dream world. She used to call me Sir Roan, tell me I was her knight in shining armor and she knew I'd always protect her. It felt good to be looked up to like that, but it was scary, too. I tried to be what she expected, I really did, but sometimes I think it was the wrong thing to do. By fighting her battles for her, I kept her from standing on her own feet.”

“Weren't things better after her father left?”

“Not really,” he answered, wondering at the same time what else Jake had told her. “Her mother wasn't able to work, and the public assistance they got didn't go very far. She and Carolyn were too proud to accept help from the church groups, much less ask for it. They always pretended things were better than they were, or that their circum
stances were going to change somehow, some way. I tried to help. I drove Carolyn and her mother to town to shop or to keep doctors' appointments. I mowed their yard and kept their old house painted and repaired. One year I planted a garden for them, but they didn't gather the vegetables because that might have looked as if they needed to grow their own food. Carolyn would accept a few dollars from me when her mother needed medicine or some other comfort. That was all.”

“So you had both Carolyn and her mother leaning on you then,” Donna said in tentative tones. “It must have been a heavy burden.”

Surprise held him silent for a moment. He'd never looked at it like that, but simply accepted it as his duty to help a friend. “Anyway, everybody noticed how close we were and sort of assumed we were a couple. I guess we did, too. She liked coming here to Dog Trot, being with my mom and dad. After she and her mother had to move in with her mother's brother, it seemed like a good idea to get married. We did, and I thought everything would be all right.

“But it wasn't.”

No, it hadn't been, for all the reasons he'd given before. Roan turned his head to meet Donna's gaze. Something in his face must have unsettled her, or else she realized she was still touching him, for she lifted her hand and stepped back. He studied her features, her eyes with their hint of compassion behind their coolness, the yielding softness of her mouth, the self-possessed tilt of her chin. She had her problems, but she was nothing like Carolyn. Nothing at all. Thank God.

The shift of a breeze across the porch brought her scent to him. He breathed it in before he could stop himself, that soap-clean fragrance tempered by a mind-stopping whiff of
warm woman that had haunted him for days as he sat beside her bed. The involuntary tightening of his body was inconvenient, but no surprise. He'd been in a state of semiarousal for so long now that it was beginning to feel natural. What was new was the sudden ferocious need to bury his face in the tender curve of her neck and draw long breaths of that special scent, to burn it into his memory.

His changed mood seemed to communicate itself to her. She tilted her head and lifted an inquiring brow. When he said nothing, she asked, “So was it really postpartum depression that triggered the suicide attempt, as Jake seems to think, or was it something else?”

“Both, I guess. Her mother died, they found her father in a shallow grave, and she was never the same. It was as if she figured out, finally, that things were never going to get any better unless she did something about them.”

“So when she didn't die, after all, she left. Tragic.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” He pushed away from the railing, putting distance between them. The last thing he wanted was her compassion. What he did want was her hands on him again, touching more than his arm, occupying his thoughts to the exclusion of all else, bringing him the peace that was always just beyond his grasp. The impossibility of it ever happening made his voice harder than he'd intended as he added, “Could be it was for the best.”

“Meaning?”

“Carolyn needed professional help. I never realized it, wouldn't admit that I couldn't make everything right for her. That I wasn't all she needed.”

His voice died in his throat as he heard what he'd just said. He'd acknowledged that he was partly responsible for his wife's problems. That was something he'd never done before.

“I think you're taking too much of the blame,” Donna
said, her tone pensive, as if she might be thinking of something other than his dismal history. “It was your wife's decision.”

“In a manner of speaking. Her therapist told her she'd never find herself while she was clinging to me as a lifeline, that she needed to let go. I guess it was true, since that's more or less what she did.” Roan turned his head to study the woman beside him. “I don't suppose that's what you might be doing here, would it?”

A short laugh left her. “Finding myself? Hardly. But I thought you were sure I was a hardened criminal.”

She was right. Had his thinking shifted, or was he just considering possibilities? He couldn't let her know he'd weakened even that far, or there was no telling how she might try to use that advantage. Anyway, it was the law that mattered, not what he might or might not think.

With an offhand shrug, he said, “I meant maybe that was the reason you took up with your pals, Zits and Big Ears. Maybe you're a poor little rich girl with problems that you're trying to solve by chucking everything for a life-style with no rules or obligations.”

The look she gave him was dark. “Would that be so bad?”

“It has its appeal for all of us at times, but it's no remedy. At some point you're either forced to turn around and come back or else you run full circle. Either way, the problems are still there waiting for you. So what's the answer?” He waited to see if she would respond with the truth, or if the curtain would go up on another scene of her endless playacting.

She shifted uneasily, then moved further along the porch railing. Without thinking, he followed, wanting to be close, cursing himself for the weakness. She was under his protection. He had to keep that in mind at all costs.

“Maybe I'd rather not remember,” she said in compressed tones.

It was marginally possible, but he wouldn't bet on it. He let silence stand as his answer.

“Actually, I don't care if I never do. I think I could get used to being in the country like this, to following the seasons, working in the garden, being able to watch the stars at night.”

“Judging by your anklet, I'd say the stars in your world have a bit more glitter,” he offered with deliberate irony.

Her laugh sounded forced. “From rhinestones?”

“Not according to the local jeweler. He says the stones are blue-white, finest quality diamonds. A photo of the anklet is circulating in the national network, but nothing has turned up on it.”

“You mean it hasn't been reported stolen or missing.”

“And no one's taking credit for being the designer.”

“You think of everything,” she said flatly.

“I try.” He paused, then went on. “There are aids to memory, if you agree. Hypnotherapy, for one.”

She straightened with a challenge in her gaze. “You expect me to let you poke around in my memory?”

“Not me, personally. Dr. Watkins is certified, and you couldn't be in better hands.”

“I don't think so, thanks.”

“Afraid of what we'll find?”

“As I said, I prefer my memory as it is, even with its glitches.”

She had an answer for everything. He had to admire that. “You might remember something that would clear you.”

“My, my, Sir Roan, are you trying to solve all my problems now?”

He flinched; he couldn't help it. He'd known that telling her about his private life was like handing her a weapon,
but had expected her to have more scruples than to use it. He must have come too close to whatever it was that she was hiding. That was a promising idea though he allowed nothing of it to show on his face.

“I'm trying to do my job,” he said evenly. “That includes solving your problems, since they impact the case.”

“In other words, you want to be rid of me as soon as possible.”

“Your stay at Dog Trot was always supposed to be temporary,” he said without emphasis.

Her lips twisted at the corners. “So it was. Too bad.”

“Meaning?”

Her lashes came down and her gaze rested on the star pinned to his shirt, as if it fascinated her. For an instant, he thought she was going to reach out to touch it, as she had before. As she spoke, her voice was low and not quite steady. “Given enough time, we might have come to a better understanding.”

Did she mean what he thought? It didn't bear thinking about. In rough denial, he answered, “I think we understand each other well enough.”

“Do you? But there's always room for…improvement.”

It was a test of his willpower and sworn avowal that he wouldn't touch her. She was tempting him, even taunting him, because she knew very well that he wanted her. She thought she could use the oldest trick in the book to make him forget why he was holding her prisoner, forget everything except the sweet, sweet pleasure of tasting her, having her. And she was right, damn them both to hell.

“Don't,” he commanded in hard, self-directed contempt.

“Don't what?”

“Don't look at me like that, don't say another word. Go into the house now, before you get in more trouble than you can handle.”

She lifted her chin, her gaze meeting his in clear challenge. “Suppose I'd rather not?”

He didn't intend to move; there was no recognizable order from brain to muscle and bone. One moment they were standing with their backs to the railing, and the next he was upon her in a smooth glide of extending muscles. He lifted her with easy strength to seat her on the railing then hold her waist while he stepped between her spread thighs until he was firmly, mind-blowingly wedged against the softness at their apex. She gasped and clutched at his shoulders. Then they were still.

“If you don't,” he said, his voice a jagged rasp of sound, “then you'll find out how easy it would be for me to forget what and who I am. You'll find out what it's like to be loved in hot, Deep South fashion, holding nothing back. And you'll discover that the experiment won't make a damned bit of difference, because I won't let it. I can't, not and live with myself.”

She swallowed hard, for he watched the movement under the golden skin of her throat with burning eyes. She whispered, “I thought…you had no objection to a test?”

“I said it, but I was wrong,” he answered, his breath coming so fast and deep it made his lungs ache. “Call me oversensitive, but I do object when it's a lie. I object when it's to throw me off the scent. I object when it isn't me you want, but what you can get from me.”

“That's what you think this is about?”

She was shaking; he could feel the tremors under his hands, against his body. It affected him as nothing else could have, so that it was all he could do not to slide his hand under the soft cotton of her T-shirt, to cup her breast and put the pad of his thumb squarely on the spot where her heart pounded.

She was no streetwise call girl as he'd thought possible
at first, but a woman in over her head and not handling it well. Fear did that to some people. It made them react rather than think. Once they'd chosen the wrong path, it was nearly impossible for them to turn away from it. He'd give a lot to know where she had miscalculated, and how far gone she was at this minute. If he knew, he might still be able to set her right. She was far too straight in her ways, in how she talked and how she fought, for her mistakes to be too critical.

Excuses. He was making excuses for her again. It might have been funny, if it wasn't so pitiful. And who would make them for him if he went back on his word?

It took wrenching, gut-tangling effort to step back, to set her on the floor and support her until she was steady on her feet once more, and then to let her go. Still, he did it. It was that or else make love to her there in the gathering darkness, have her with fierce tenderness and no thought or hope of tomorrow, then take her up to his bed and have her again. And again.

“It doesn't matter what this was about,” he said with grim care. “It's over.”

He put his hand on her elbow and turned her toward the kitchen door. She went with him into the house, then moved obediently toward the stairs to the upper floor as he headed her in that direction. At the foot of the staircase, however, she turned back. Her eyes were huge in her pale face and shadowed with secrets as she stared at him across the room. Then the lovely curves of her mouth tilted in a smile.

“Over?” she said, her tone quiet, almost contemplative. “I think it's just begun.”

T
ory heard about the impending arrival of the gaming consortium members on the police scanner. It was an accident. She was walking past the open door of Roan's bedroom when the scanner on his desk blared out static and police code. She glanced in, but didn't stop and back up until she recognized Roan's voice in answer.

She was alone in the house and more than a little bored, since Jake had gone to hang out at his friend Terry's house for the day. Eavesdropping on police messages would prevent her from wandering around like a lost soul, or inviting Cal, on guard duty, inside for coffee just for company.

The bit about the consortium had come in a message from Roan's office to him where he was on his way to attend a funeral out in the country for a former police juryman. The mayor wanted Roan to swing by the mayor's office on his way back into town to discuss the impending visit of a couple of the gaming bigwigs, Evan Battersea and Harrell Melanka. Tory, listening to the exchange, longed to have her boredom back again.

Harrell was coming to Turn-Coupe.

It was obvious that Zits and Big Ears had reported, finally, they'd lost her. No doubt they'd also told Harrell that
she had been injured and was being held under tight police security. If the two had listened around the area, they might have told him, as well, that she'd lost her memory and no one in Turn-Coupe had any idea of her identity.

Her ex-fiancé was coming. He'd find some trumped-up reason to see her, then stage a touching recognition scene. Immediately afterward, he'd produce proof of identity and request that she be released into his care while calling in a raft of high-powered lawyers to file all the necessary motions to have any charges dismissed. If that didn't work, he'd bring in Paul Vandergraff. With her stepfather in the picture, she'd be on her way back to Florida before the ink dried on the paperwork.

She wouldn't go.

Yes, but how could she stay? Roan hardly believed a word of what she'd said up to this point. If she conveniently regained her memory and tried to tell him now that Harrell was behind her abduction, he'd figure out what a consummate liar she was. How likely was he to believe a word she said then?

The message she'd heard made it sound as if the visit from the consortium had been pending for some time. For a brief moment, Tory wondered if Roan hadn't mentioned it to her because he knew of her connection and was stringing her along. Then logic kicked in. He hadn't brought up the subject because he had no idea she'd be interested. It was paranoid to think otherwise, though the situation was enough to drive anyone a little mad.

She couldn't just do nothing. To start, she needed to find out when Harrell was arriving. When she knew how much time she had to work something out, then she'd make up her mind whether she was going to face him or run. She didn't want to go like that, but running away looked like the most intelligent decision she could make. That was, of
course, if she could figure out how to get rid of the monitor so the eternally vigilant parish sheriff didn't stop her before she was a mile from Dog Trot.

She returned to the scanner off and on the rest of the day, in between trips to the kitchen to prepare a steak-and-broccoli pie for dinner. She grew adept at making out the voices on the scanner and understanding what was going on in the parish. A part of it was the context of the messages, but the codes and numbers rattled off by the communicating officers were also very similar to those used on the daily reruns of one of Jake's favorite TV police programs.

She heard Roan again, reporting in from various points. It occurred to her that if she paid close attention to the scanner while he was away from Dog Trot, she'd always know his location and what he was doing. Not only would he have a much harder time dropping back by the house unannounced, but she'd know whether to try any doubtful activity she might want to undertake. That she now had a way to keep tabs on Roan, one almost as good as his method of tracking her whereabouts, gave her immense satisfaction.

She was concentrating so hard on the scanner late in the afternoon that she didn't hear the back door open, didn't catch the first quick footsteps on the stairs. It was Beau, lying at her feet, that alerted her. He lifted his head with a rumbling growl of warning.

Tory came erect as she tilted her head to listen. Beau wouldn't growl at Jake or Roan. Cal had orders to patrol the woods on a regular route, keeping the house in view but staying outside for the most part. No one else should have had access, yet the intruder seemed to know exactly where he was headed.

The big bloodhound heaved himself to his feet and stood
stiff-legged as he watched the door. The ruff on his neck rose as his growl deepened to a threat. Tory put a hand on his big head.

The even treads hit the floorboards of the hall, were deadened briefly by the hall carpet, then approached the bedroom without pause. If the intruder feared attack by the growling dog, there was no sign of it.

Tory looked around for an escape route. The windows of the bedroom opened onto the back gallery, but she'd never get them open in time. The brass doorknob was already turning, the door beginning to open. Beau's growl broke into gruff barking. Tory reached for a small brass statuette of a shepherd and shepherdess that sat on the bedside table.

The man paused in the doorway with his hand still on the knob. He was a stranger, with black hair cut close to his head to control its tendency to curl, and the clearest blue eyes Tory had ever seen. The combination of light and dark reminded her of a summer's storm as it blew in off the gulf, all calm clear skies on one side of the beach and somber darkness on the other.

Tory held her makeshift club in front of her as she demanded, “Who are you?”

The man flicked a glance at her, but concentrated his attention on the barking dog. “Down, Beau,” he called above the dog's din. “For crying out loud. See if I bring you any deer bones this winter!”

The bloodhound subsided, looking away as if embarrassed while he wagged his tail. It was plain that he knew the man who continued to talk to him in half humorous, half exasperated appeal. Tory wasn't quite ready to relax, however.

The newcomer gave her a straight look, taking in her weapon, before he inclined his head in a truncated bow.
“Didn't mean to scare you, ma'am. I'm Clay, Clay Benedict. Roan gave me a call, said he'd be tied up at work a couple of more hours. Since Cal's shift is over and Jake's still out rambling around, he asked me to come over and take up the slack, so to speak.”

“You could have knocked,” she suggested.

“Did that, but I guess you were busy. Roan clued me in on what's been going on, so it seemed best to have a look-see, make sure you were okay. I let myself in with the extra key down at the barn.”

“I'm supposed to take your word for this?”

He smiled, a slow curving of his mouth that rose to reflect in his eyes with real humor. As he spoke, his voice carried a deep, musical lilt. “I'd be obliged if you would.”

He was a Benedict all right. The family resemblance was there in his height, his square shoulders, the thick brows and steady gaze from large, wide-spaced eyes. He appeared younger than Roan by a couple of years, possibly, but had the same confidence, the same audacity as the three men in the racing photograph Tory had seen in the attic. Still, she wasn't quite ready to relax her vigilance.

“Give me a good reason.”

“Hmm. I could show you my driver's license, but didn't think to grab my wallet before I took off, since I skimmed over on
Jenny.
”

“Jenny,”
she repeated, her voice flat.

“My airboat,” he said in quick explanation before he gestured toward the bedside phone. “Give Roan a call, why don't you? He'll vouch for me.”

Disturbing Roan at work was the last thing she wanted to do. Feeling suddenly ridiculous with the statuette in her hand, she set it back on the bedside table. Beau, as if taking his cue from her, flopped down on the rug beside her again. After a moment's thought, she said, “Maybe you could just
tell me something about your cousin that would convince me?”

“Expose Cousin Roan's secrets?” Clay tipped his head to one side as a wry glint appeared in his blue gaze. “That could be a problem.”

“Meaning?”

“I'm not sure he has any.”

The stare she gave him was jaundiced. “I expect you can think of something.”

“A challenge, huh?” He turned to set his spine against the door's frame, then crossed one booted foot over the other in a relaxed pose. “Let's see. He'll turn thirty-four next birthday. Since Jake's fourteen, Roan was barely twenty when his son was born. He's been sheriff forever, and he works too hard at taking care of everybody in sight. How's that?”

“Keep going.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

Clay appeared to search his mind. “Old Roan likes to fish, at least when he can find the time. His favorite food is fried white perch. He hates light beer but loves light potato chips. His son is the most important thing in his life, but next in line is his 1970 Plymouth Super Bird.”

“His what?”

“A Classic Car,” Clay said with a pained expression. “Note the capital letters. An elegant machine of chrome and steel of a kind they don't make anymore—a symphony of precision mechanics and fine engineering that's such a vision of grace and positive motion that she looks as if she's racing even when she's standing still.”

He was describing the car in the photograph she'd seen in the attic. “Color?”

“Purple. Some silly name. I don't know.”

“Plum Crazy,” she said, and smiled.

“That's it,” he agreed, his gaze sharpening with interest.

“Original paint job?”

“Absolutely.”

She took a step toward him. “Does it still have the rear wing?”

“The car's in perfect shape—not a scratch or ding, runs like a son of a gun, doesn't use a drop of oil.” He stared at her. “But if you're so into Classic Cars, how is it you missed hearing about Roan's baby?”

She shrugged, shielding her gaze with her lashes as she tried to rein in her enthusiasm. “It never came up.”

“It will, just wait.”

She tipped her head. “You sound as if you might have more than a passing interest.”

“It rubs off when you and your brothers tag around after three cousins wild about combustion engines. That was years ago, of course. None of us have time for it anymore, what with work and families. Anyway, I switched over to boats, well, boats and photography.”

“And they're your current passion?”

A quick grin came and went across his face. “I guess that's one way to put it. Roan has a bass rig with a 150 horsepower motor that I've been trying to get him to sell me—Lord knows he doesn't need it, no more time than he has to fish. It's a classic of its kind, souped up so it outruns anything on the lake. He bought it not long after he lost a boat race to Luke and Kane and had to cook and serve breakfast to them in the buff.”

She stared at Clay. “You mean as in…naked?”

“Boggles the mind, doesn't it?”

The image certainly had mental impact. “So he bought this superfast boat because he meant to win the next race.”

“Did, too,” Clay agreed with a nod. “Our Roan doesn't like losing.”

She'd noticed. A slow smile tugged one corner of her
mouth as she stepped toward Clay and put out her hand. “All right. You convinced me.”

He straightened and enclosed her fingers in a warm clasp as he grinned down at her. “Don't tell Roan I spilled the beans, will you? He also doesn't like people talking behind his back.”

“I can tell you're really worried.”

Clay lifted a shoulder. “I'm not above kidding him to his face, but he might consider discussing his misspent youth with you a different proposition altogether.”

“I see.” Coolness layered her voice again.

“I doubt it,” he answered without quite meeting her gaze. “It's the kind of thing a man prefers to tell on himself.” He turned toward the hall. “You don't suppose Roan has an extra beer in the fridge, do you? Since I'm taking guard duty for him, the least he can do is supply refreshment.”

It was a diversion, but she decided not to call him on it.

Clay turned out to be a human database on the Benedict family, both past and present. He entertained her with tales of the brothers who'd settled Turn-Coupe, including his own family branch, enlarging on what Johnnie had already told her in the hospital. His close family included two brothers, Adam and Wade, and an artistic mother, though he mentioned a twin who had been killed in an accident a few years back. His stories sometimes seemed far-fetched, but were lively and sensitive. She found herself enjoying the easy camaraderie that rose between them. With a little gentle prodding on her part, he even filled in a few more gaps in her knowledge of Roan. He steered clear of anything too personal, but didn't seem to mind talking about his hobbies or his job and its responsibilities.

It was growing late when he started telling her about the way Roan souped up the engine in the patrol unit he drove,
frustrating the local teenagers who liked to hot-rod their cars and race them on the street.

“You should have heard what Dale Rathson said after Roan pulled him over following a chase down the old lake road. He went straight home and started tearing the engine down on his brand-new Mustang, swearing he'd beat the sheriff next time. Dale's dad had a fit when he found out.”

“You're supposed to be watching out for Donna, Cousin, not boring her to death,” Roan said from the open doorway of the kitchen.

Tory swung to face him. How long had he been standing there, she wondered? Did he know that she'd been teasing information about him from his cousin? And did he realize that he'd made Clay's presence sound more as if he'd been sent to protect her than to guard against her escape?