Sighs Matter (5 page)

Tossing his spoon onto the table, Taylor leaned back in his chair. “If you think that shows you know me, Dr. Hunter, think again.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Well, excuse me, Mr. Macho Arrogant Keep Away From Me Hotshot Typical Stupid Male. Complimenting your talent was
not
a come-on.”

Fuming, she turned, scrubbed the bowl and spoon she’d used, dried them, and put them in the cupboard. “There. Now you only have four hundred and ninety-nine things to wa— What are you doing?”

He rose from the table and began stalking toward her.

“Okay, fine,” she stated flatly, lifting her hands as a barrier against him. “Your paintings suck, you no-talent dilettante. Happy now?”

He stopped two feet in front of her, grasped her by the wrists, and held her in place. The heat of his body kept coming, though, wrapping her in warmth like an invisible embrace.

“I like that you like my paintings,” he whispered.

Though she wanted to speak, words wouldn’t come. The strength of his fingers gripping her wrists, the aroma of his soap coupled with the muskier scent of his clean body, the fiery blue of his eyes, combined to render her mute.

He released her, stepping away, and she felt suddenly cold, as if the sun had left the sky.

She realized she wanted to touch him, call him back, but he moved beyond the reach of her outstretched hand. She thought to call his name, but before she could speak, he said, “Finish up and get your stuff. I have a few hours’ work to do, then I’ll take you back to Port Henry. On the way, I want to check out your accident scene. And we can talk some more about what happened.”

She furrowed her brow and nodded agreement.

We can talk some more about what happened
. Which what happened? she wondered. What happened between them eight months ago? What happened yesterday when she was forced off the road? Or what was undeniably happening between them right now?

Barium
What to do when CPR fails.

“It started here,” Claire said softly, gesturing with her hand. Though she hid it well, Taylor was certain her fingers trembled just a little. “About here, I think. It was dark, and I was . . .”

Terrified
, Taylor finished in his head.

He downshifted, slowed, and took the next bend in the road. “This is where he first made contact?”

She nodded absently, as though reliving the incident inside her head. “Yes. He hit my bumper a couple of times. His high beams were on so I couldn’t see anything in my rearview mirror but glare. Then he laid on the horn. At first I though he just wanted by me, but he kept ramming my bumper until . . .
here
. Here’s where he started shoving me off the road.”

Her eyes were wide, her voice thin. She leaned forward with one hand on the dashboard as she described the accident. Since there was no place to turn out and stop, Taylor checked his mirrors and slowed as much as possible, examining the road ahead and the rocky incline to his right. Ahead of him, the road curved sharply, allowing no view of oncoming traffic.

“Around this corner,” she said, then swallowed. “I—I saw this bend coming and knew I was going too fast to make it. He shoved me hard. I slammed on the brakes and at the same time, pulled the emergency brake, but I had too much momentum going, couldn’t stop, and couldn’t hold the turn.”

Slowly, Taylor took the same turn that Claire had been forced to take last night. Thick black skid marks lay like dark ribbons on the pavement where she’d tried to stop. The road curved, the tracks did not. She’d headed straight across the oncoming lane. Anything could have been coming up that hill last night, from a motorcycle, to a semi, to an old farmer in a produce truck, to a family.

He felt his jaw tighten as he fought down all the what-ifs and how differently this story would have ended if Claire’s guardian angel hadn’t been perched on her shoulder.

She must have been panicking like hell, wondering what would happen. Even now, her skin had drained of color, her eyes widened and filled with unshed tears. She kept her lips pressed together, her spine straight.

He knew she was tough, now he knew she was brave.

“But you made it, Claire,” he said gently. “You kept your head, and you made it.”

Without looking at him, she nodded. “Um, the turnout’s right around this corner. You’ll be able to see—Oh, no.”

If Taylor hoped to find a single shred of evidence at the turnout where Claire had been run off the road, it was all blown to hell when he rounded the bend. A logging truck stood parked on the gravel. Between the front fender of the shiny red cab and the length of cut timber filling its extended bed, the eighteen-wheeler took up about fifty feet, and not an inch of turnout to spare. On top of that, last night’s summer drizzle had morphed to muck whatever tire or footprint evidence might have existed.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “Not even room enough for me to pull over.”

He took in as much of the scene as he could, asking Claire questions. Behind the rig stood the bent metal barrier that had saved her from going over, but there was no way he’d find any footprint or tire evidence at this point.

Waving to the gray-haired driver relaxing in the cab, munching on an enormous sandwich, Taylor shifted gears and rounded the next bend, looking for the spot the driver must have used to park in order to come back and rob Claire just minutes after the accident.

But there wasn’t one.

“He must have taken the chance this road is seldom used,” he said. “Probably pulled over, left it idling, jumped out and ran back to your truck. Maybe he wanted to see if you were hurt, but when he got there, and you were unconscious, he decided to take your stuff.”

As Taylor spoke, a car came up behind him. Dammit. There was no way he could pull over, so he had to keep going. Since this part of the road was paved side to side, he wouldn’t be able to get any tire tread evidence anyway.

Blowing out a frustrated sigh, he sped up and said, “Robbing you couldn’t have been his plan all along, because there was no guarantee you’d hit your head and pass out. Taking your things must have been a crime of opportunity.”

“Okay, but what about the bottle?”

“You got me. My guess is, he was drinking and he just brought it along when he came to check on you. Set it down when he gathered up your stuff, and forgot to grab it when he saw the lights from the cruiser coming down the hill. Or he left it on purpose to put you in hot water.”

Easing back into her seat, she said, “I guess. I’m just glad it’s over.”

He shot her another glance. “You’ve been coping okay, right?” he ventured, as certain puzzle pieces began clicking into place. “Being assaulted by Betsy’s stalker, and now this. Heavy-duty traumas, even for a doctor who—”

“I’m coping just fine,” she interrupted. “Thanks for your concern, Detective, but I’m right as rain.”

No you’re not
.

The realization struck Taylor with the force of an ecclesiastical epiphany. Not only was she not all right, she was doing her best to mask her true feelings. He wondered if she’d let down her guard with anybody over the last eleven months. Her aunt? Her best friend?

He’d bet even money she hadn’t.

When he’d first seen her at the station last night, he’d assumed her up-tight attitude was a result of the accident, not to mention unexpectedly running into him again. She’d been scared and tired, true. But he’d been viewing her though a combined filter of frustration, anger, and, yeah, unwanted attraction.

Now that he’d had a chance to talk to her and let his emotions dissipate a little, he was beginning to suspect there was a lot more going on inside her head than she was willing to admit.

She’d had a nightmare last night, and had screamed.

I sneezed
, she’d said.
My ass
, he’d thought.

Had her nightmare been related to the car accident, or was this new trauma too close on the heels of the old one?

Claire was a doctor. She’d survived medical school and internship and boards and whatever else doctors had to go through to get to be doctors. She was used to being in charge, the one others looked to for answers, for strength.

What had happened nearly a year ago had undoubtedly shaken her confidence, but because she was supposed to be tough in the face of adversity, she probably fought to maintain her image even though her mind and her heart were still coping with such a brutal attack.

It gnawed at him a little that he hadn’t seen it sooner. His very presence must be a reminder of the night she’d nearly been killed. She’d needed him then, and he’d been there for her—as a cop, and as a man.

Now she was shutting him out. Whatever had caused her to scream in her sleep was obviously something she didn’t want to talk about. Not to him, anyway.

“I don’t think you’re right as rain,” he said. “In fact—”

“I’ll make a deal with you,” she said, her tone dry. “I promise not to play detective with you if you won’t play doctor with me.” Placing her fingertips at her temples, she closed her eyes and muttered, “I can’t believe I just said that. Talk about an opening . . .”

“Oh, yeah.” He grinned. “Playing doctor with you sounds like a whole lot of fun, bunny hugs.”

“Stop calling me by those fake endearments. We don’t have an audience, so there’s no need for it.”

“What makes you think they’re fake?”

Her mouth flattened. “And stop pretending to be so charming.”

“Who’s pretending? I
am
charming.
Every
body says so.” He smiled at her, just to drive the message home.

“So insufferable,” she muttered. Louder, she said, “Take the next right, please.”

The chickens and the goose flapped and squawked and scattered as Taylor pulled to a stop in front of the farmhouse at the end of the long gravel drive.

He gave a quick glance around, pretending he’d never laid eyes on the place before. It was closing in on five in the afternoon. Sunshine glistened off the pond just beyond the barn, while graceful trees shaded the house. Agatha lay sprawled under a rocking chair on the porch, trying to escape the heat. Other than the animals, the place seemed quiet.

He turned off the ignition. Time for a little subtle interrogation.

“I’ve seen some of your aunt’s old movies,” he said. “She was really beautiful.”

A smile tilted the ends of Claire’s mouth. “I think Aunt Sadie is still beautiful.”

“Does she miss Hollywood?”

Her smile broadened. “Probably. She talks about the old days a lot. Sometimes it seems she has a little, um, difficulty letting go of the grandeur.”

“You mean, like Norma Desmond?”

Claire snickered. “Nothing so dramatic as in
Sunset Boulevard
, but it must be hard to have been so famous, so glamorous, the toast of the town, and then one day give it all up to—”

She stopped herself. Licking her lips, she said, “Basically, I think she’s pretty grounded in reality. Mostly anyway. I know she misses the old days.”

“That’s not what you were going to say. Why did the fabulous Sadie Lancaster leave Hollywood?”

Shrugging, she avoided his eyes. “Long story. Emotionally, I don’t think she’s ever left. She’s virtually memorized every line of dialogue she ever heard.” With a lopsided grin, she said, “Sadie and Hitch make quite a pair.”

“Is that her boyfriend?”

“Hitch?” She laughed at that, her eyes closed, her neck arched, and he found he wanted to grab her, say something, do something, anything to keep her laughing. The Claire he’d known once upon a time.

Shifting her body in his direction, she said, “Sadie’s fiancé’s name is Mort. Hitchcock is Aunt Sadie’s African Grey parrot. She brought him with her when she left Hollywood twenty years ago. She keeps him in his cage in her room when she’s gone, but when she’s home, Hitch has the run of the place.”

“A parrot, huh. Does he talk?”

She chuckled. “Getting him to talk is easy. It’s shutting him up that’s the trick.”

“What about Mort?”

“He talks, too.”

“Very funny.”

“You won’t think so once you’ve met Mort.”

Jumping into the tiny opening she’d given him, he said, “Don’t you like this Mort guy?”

Claire tilted her head as she unfastened her seat belt, taking her time to consider his remark. Her brow furrowed slightly.

“I think it’s nice Aunt Sadie’s involved with a man her own age. She’s been a widow for twenty-five years. I’m sure there are times when she’s been . . . lonely. Mort is somebody she can talk to, share common generational memories with.”

Her words were supportive, but her tone and body language told a different story.

“But . . .” he drawled, waited.

As though deciding what to share with him, she nibbled on the corner of her bottom lip. He let himself watch her. Just . . . watch her. It was easy to do. Claire was one of those rare women who was beautiful without being obvious about it. Everything about her was understated, which was why, the first time he’d looked into her eyes, he felt like he’d been zapped with a stun gun. Now, at this moment, it was all he could do to keep his mind on business and his hands to himself.

“Mort owns a funeral home and a crematorium,” she said slowly. “Mortimer’s Mortuary, downtown.” She smiled. “Now, I know it sounds judgmental of me, and I’m sure most funeral directors are regular people just like you and me . . .”

“Yet . . .”

“He gives me the creeps.” She slapped her thigh with her open palm. “There. I’ve said it. I’m a bad person, I know, but I swear, Mort could be a grocery clerk or a jet pilot or a stockbroker, and he’d still give me the creeps.”

“Mort the mortician gives you the creeps?” Taylor chided. “Other than the fact his name is Mort, how do you mean?” He kept it light, casual, simple curiosity, that’s all.

She smiled at him as though she had a secret. Her eyes sparkled like mellow sherry, and long dimples appeared in her cheeks. She looked more like the woman he’d met a year ago, the one he’d found so irresistible, the one he’d danced with half the night, and made love to the other half.

“Yeah, Mortie the mortician,” she snickered. “He doesn’t seem to mind, though. Apparently it’s a longstanding family trade, passed from father to son.”

“Hmm. I guess when his dad told him to grab a cold one, he wasn’t talking about beer.”

Laughter bubbled from deep in her throat. It was a thoroughly sexy sound, and he felt himself respond.

“Maybe it was his mother who passed along the trade,” she said wryly. “What would you call a lady mortician?”

Taylor paused for effect. “Mummy?”

She let her head fall back on the seat as she laughed until her eyes were moist and her cheeks rosy. “I hate it when you do that,” she said to the ceiling.