Roan (23 page)

Clay rose to his feet and reached to clasp his cousin's hand. “It's about time you got home.”

“Figured you were about ready to leave,” Roan said easily. “That's if you want to get home while it's still light enough to tell the lake from the trees.”

“That's what boat lights are for, old buddy.”

“No sense taking a chance.”

Clay tilted his head to one side, sliding his gaze from Roan to Tory, then back again. “You trying to get rid of me? Say the word, and I'm gone.”

“Don't go yet,” Tory said before Roan could answer. “Stay for dinner. It won't take long to put it on the table.” Roan's attitude seemed strange, almost possessive, she thought, especially when he was the one who had sent Clay to Dog Trot.

Roan compressed his lips, a sure sign of displeasure. “Who's going to cook? Jake's not back and I don't feel like starting a big meal.”

“Dinner is ready,” she said with a confident smile. “I made it earlier.”

“You?”

“Including dessert.”

He turned to his cousin. “You'd better stick around then, in case Jake and I wind up with accidental food poisoning.”

“If I poison you,” Tory said with ultra sweetness, “it will be no accident. Believe me.”

Clay grinned as he looked from one to the other of them. “I don't think I'd better go, after all,” he said to his cousin. “Sounds like you two need a referee.”

The look Roan gave him had a slicing edge to it, but Clay met it with a lifted brow. After a moment, the sheriff laughed. “Let me grab myself a beer and another one for you and we'll sit outside, out of Donna's way. She can call us when the food's on the table.”

Tory might have been annoyed at being treated like the hired help if not for a sneaking suspicion that Roan's main concern was to get Clay out of the house, away from her. That idea was so intriguing that she stood for a long moment, staring after the two men as they banged their way out the screen door. Then she shook her head, and moved to put the steak-and-broccoli pie in the microwave to reheat then set the table.

When Tory went to call the men a short time later, she paused at the screen door that opened onto the back porch. Roan and Clay were lying on lounge chairs out on the patio, the perfect picture of comradeship as they drank their beer. Jake was just returning; he called a greeting to the two men as he dismounted and cut the engine of the dirt bike, then wheeled it over to join them. There was something permanent and enduring about the small group, as if they were where they belonged, and knew it.

A warbling ring cut through the rumble of masculine
voices. Roan threw up his hands as if in disgust, then pulled his cell phone from his shirt pocket. He got up and walked away a short distance, asking staccato questions and nodding his head from time to time as he listened to the answers. Closing the phone with a quick slap, he turned back to the other two.

“Bad accident on the old iron bridge,” he said. “I have to go.”

Tory opened the screen and stepped outside. “Your plate is ready, if you want to grab a quick bite first.”

“No time,” he said, with only a brief glance in her direction before he turned to his cousin. “It's a messy deal, a carload of teenagers and an eighteen-wheeler with a load of chemicals.” He gave a terse description and a comment or two which indicated that the ancient bridge, one of many in the state awaiting allocation of funds before replacement, was known for accidents. Then he added, “The First Response team has been called out. You can ride with me, Clay, since you don't have land transport.”

“Can I go?” Jake asked, the gaze he turned on his father hopeful.

Clay didn't move, but only squinted up at Roan. “What about Donna?”

“Jake's here now, plus Allen will cover Dog Trot until I get back. They need every First Response teammate at the wreck.”

“Aw, Dad,” Jake said in complaint, the expression on his face showing plainly that he'd rather be in on the excitement of the wreck.

“And the time in between?” Clay asked.

“Won't be any. That was Allen on the phone. He's on his way.” Roan leaned to offer his hand to Clay to help him off the lounge, a not too subtle hint that he expected him to get a move on.

“You've covered all the bases, haven't you?” Clay's voice was without inflection as he rose to his feet, but Tory thought she caught the gleam of amusement in the rich blue of his eyes.

Roan made no reply. Turning on his heel, he stalked toward his patrol unit on the drive that curved around from the front. He climbed in and cranked the engine, barely waiting for Clay to drop into the passenger seat before he put it in reverse. Seconds later, the two men were gone.

So much for wowing anybody with her culinary ability, Tory thought as she turned back inside the kitchen. Roan could eat later, but it wouldn't be the same; nothing would be as fresh or as good as it was at this moment. She'd gone to so much trouble, making the filling and the crust from scratch, even creating a special crème brûlée for dessert. A wrecked meal was nothing compared to helping save lives in a bloody traffic accident, of course. Still, she was disappointed. She'd really wanted to prove her usefulness.

Tory wondered, again, if she shouldn't tell Roan about Harrell, shouldn't lay everything on the line. That would be the Benedict way, wouldn't it? Everything honest and aboveboard, out where everyone could see exactly what was going on and know where they stood? It might even be the best way.

She didn't dare. She had too much to lose. Besides, she couldn't stand to see the disdain in Roan's face when he found out how she'd lied to him.

When had his opinion come to mean so much? Why did it matter at all?

It didn't, not really. Of course, it didn't.

With a quick shake of her head, she moved to the range where she dished up the meat pie for Jake and herself. Roan's son, still nursing his grievance over being left behind, slouched off into the den with his dinner. Tory put
her plate on the table, poured a glass of merlot, and took a salad from the refrigerator. Then she sat down to eat, alone.

 

On a bright and sunny Saturday morning, Tory was awakened by a powerful roar. It sounded like someone playing around with a high-powered engine on the drive in front of the house, accelerating, then backing off the throttle as if listening to the tone and pitch. Flinging back the sheet that covered her, she slid out of bed and reached for her shorts and T-shirt.

Roan's Super Bird sat on the driveway. It was a beauty, sleek and trim, its Plum Crazy Purple paint job shimmering in the sunlight with an iridescent bloom like a perfect Santa Rosa plum. Looking as perfect as the day it rolled off the assembly line, it gave silent testimony to the loving care that had been lavished upon it in its lifetime.

Tory's footsteps crunched in the gravel as she circled to the front where Roan stood with his head under the raised hood. He straightened and turned to face her.

If he had not been in front of his own house, she might not have recognized him; he was that different. He looked younger, more carefree, in a pair of cutoff jeans faded almost white and with ravels hanging down over his muscular thighs, a T-shirt with ragged openings where the sleeves should have been, and ancient rubber thongs on his feet. His hair was rumpled and still wet instead of neatly combed, as if he'd done no more than rake his fingers through it when he stepped from the shower. A fine sheen of perspiration highlighted the muscles of his arms, calling attention to their smooth power.

Tory had never seen him jogging and there was no exercise equipment in the house that she'd noticed, which meant his physique had to come from pure hard work. She was duly impressed as she allowed her gaze to travel up
the length of his long legs, past his narrow hips and flat waist to the width of his chest.

“Morning,” he drawled with one brow lifted in inquiry.

She could feel the heat that swept toward her hairline for being caught at something perilously close to ogling him. To cover it, she stepped to his side and glanced into the engine compartment. Instantly, her embarrassment was forgotten.

“A 426 Hemi,” she said, and whistled softly under her breath. “I'll bet she really flies.”

He didn't answer. The silence lasted so long that she lifted her gaze to meet his. He was staring at her with a bemused expression. As he met her eyes, however, he blinked then shook his head. “I've had it up over the speedometer limit on the track, over two hundred miles an hour. They ran Super Birds on the NASCAR circuit, you know, though they had to replace the fiberglass nosepieces. They flew all to pieces in the races.”

She reached over to rap with her knuckles on the cone-shaped nose of the car. At the metallic ring of aluminum instead of plastic, she said, “You were running it then?”

His eyes narrowed a fraction, perhaps in surprise at her knowledge. “For a while.”

“How did you ever get hold of it?”

“Won it.”

“You're joking.”

A lock of hair fell into the middle of his forehead, softening the hard angles of his face, as he gave a slow shake of his head.

“How?”

The silver facets of his eyes shone with remembered pleasure as he told her about his summer spent on the NASCAR circuit with his cousins. The car they had run was named the Whirlwind, he said, because it was always
spinning out, but it had given them the grand prize of the summer, the Super Bird.

“I saw a photo from that race in the attic, I think,” she said when he paused for breath.

“Kane was suited up, wasn't he? He usually drove while Luke and I ran the pit.”

“So you were the engine man.” She couldn't help smiling at the idea.

“Master mechanic,” he corrected, putting his hands on his hips. “Luke drove the truck and trailer between gigs, though we all took turns at everything.”

“Kane and Luke let you have the Super Bird? Must be great guys.”

“The best, though I paid them for their share.”

He would, of course; he wasn't the kind to take anything at someone else's expense. Unaccountably, the idea made her chest feel tight. Turning back to lean under the hood again, she said, “Well, master mechanic, judging from the smell of fuel under here, I'd say your Carter Thermoquads need adjusting.”

“The carburetors?” His shoulder brushed hers, bare skin against bare skin, as he stepped close to peer at the engine.

“Fire it up again, if you want proof.”

“Oh, I believe it, since I just decided the same thing.” He turned his head to look down at her. “What I want to know is how you came by your knowledge of performance cars?”

This was dangerous ground. Should she disclaim everything or pretend to the retrieval of some small chunk of memory? In a play for time, she did her best to look confused as she said, “I'm not sure. It almost seems…”

“What?” He turned to put his back to the fender, patiently waiting.

“I think I may have had a car something like this, only red, and there was…a man.”

“There would be,” he said under his breath. “What else?”

The quiet tone of his voice was like a friend inviting a confidence. It gave her the nerve to continue. “Somehow, I see it as maybe a birthday gift when I was a teenager?”

She'd been sixteen, actually, and the car had been a fire-engine-red 1969 Oldsmobile Cutlass with a white convertible top. It was a guilt gift, or maybe a bribe, from her stepfather after he'd had her mother locked away in her fancy nursing home. He'd known she enjoyed attending Classic Car shows and he'd thought that was the way to get her to agree that he'd done the best thing. It hadn't worked, but it was a long time before he realized it.

“This man you mentioned, could he have been the one who taught you about carburetors?”

He had been a tennis pro at the club, handsome, tan and on the take, especially when it came to silly young girls. What he'd taken had been her confidence and her car. He'd smashed both to smithereens, along with himself and her best friend, on the Key West Causeway. But she couldn't tell Roan that. She looked away, allowing a vacant expression to slide over her features, as she answered, “Who knows?”

“Right.”

Did that laconic comment mean he accepted the lie, or that he didn't? She couldn't tell. One thing she did know, she'd gone far enough. If she wasn't careful, she'd be telling Roan Benedict everything. How they'd spent weeks, her and Mark, going through the motor on the Olds, souping it up with new rods, a stronger piston, even shaving the heads to improve performance. They'd been a couple, an item, among their group. He was everything all the girls
wanted: fit, experienced, long sun-streaked blond hair pulled back in a neat pony tail, gorgeous turquoise eyes, lots of free time. And she'd had him. For a few brief weeks.

“This wouldn't be the guy you had the breast surgery for, would it?”

Tory looked up sharply, startled that Roan had made the connection from the little she'd told him before. She was really going to have to stop underestimating this man. And he was right, of course, in a way. The augmentation had come during Christmas break the following year.

She met his gaze for long moments, with her own open and vulnerable. There was such tolerance in his face, such calm acceptance of human frailty. For all the high standards that he set for himself, she thought, he didn't require others to be perfect.

Suddenly, she hated the barrier between them created by her lies. She longed to be able to say anything, tell him whatever she pleased. That she couldn't, that she had to leave him and soon, caused an ache so strong she felt the rise of incipient tears.

He was waiting for an answer. The best she could do was a shrug before she sought a distraction, then found one in her need to know when Harrell was arriving. “So, you're actually taking a day off,” she said as she turned back to survey the engine again. “I guess that means nothing much is happening in Turn-Coupe, no robberies, no murders—no funeral processions to lead or parades to police?”