The Art of Love and Murder (20 page)

“Maybe he knows something we don’t. Someone’s willing to kill for Muuyaw’s sculptures.” As soon as he uttered the words, a pang of regret slapped him in the face. Why dredge up the gallery and his wife’s murder? The cold wind of woe blew over. He hadn’t intended on going there today; he wanted only to enjoy Lacy’s company.

“I know about the murder at the gallery eight years ago. I know the woman killed was your wife.”

He peered into her face. Lacy could be in the same danger. And for the first time since his wife’s death, his concern for another woman bothered him. He cared for this green-eyed beauty.

“Why was she at the gallery?”

For a moment, he held his breath, waiting for the deep sadness that always accompanied the memories. Yet, when he stared into Lacy’s face, a tolerable, dull ache flared then subsided as if tempered by the connection he felt for her.

“She volunteered a couple of nights a week at the gallery. She happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I know you were the one who brought her justice.”

He dropped his empty wine glass and sat, crossing his legs to match hers. Their knees touched. The tinge of disgust brought a bitter taste of bile to his mouth. “Justice? You think?”

Her peach lips pinched tight as if she’d committed a verbal sin.

A bird’s wings beat against the air above as she stared at him. He’d tensed his jaw without knowing, and only when he stared into her alarmed concern did his face relax. She probably didn’t know how to react to his obvious brooding. When his mood gave way from staring into the face of the lovely woman in front of him, she smiled as if to say,
let me help
.

“I can’t identify with that kind of justice, Lacy. I’ve thought on it for so many years and still can’t uphold my actions.”

“You’re a policeman, or you were. And you’re still a lawman. He had a gun, right? And isn’t that what cops do? Stop the bad guy?”

“I’d never had to use that kind of force and haven’t since. I’d always used my head, my words. I keep thinking I might’ve, should’ve, could’ve found some other way.” He’d been full of rage, which has no place in peacekeeping. Once the rage ebbed, once the depression passed, he swore he’d never feel deeply enough to lose his peacekeeper vision again.

“You loved her. He stole her from you.”

“It’s not enough.” He spoke the words, meaning them, and sighed with resignation.

“I can’t begin to know how you feel.”

Why the hell had he gotten into this discussion? He’d been crazy to let Chief goad him into buying into his desire for Lacy. Desire is all it should be, yet the woman tugged at something softer in his core, something he thought he’d hardened years ago.

“Do you want to tell me?” She spread her hands on top of his.

“No.” Her soft palms burned the backs of his hands. He flipped one over, curling his fingers through hers.

She tilted her head, brought his hand between her cheek and shoulder and closed her eyes. “All right. But I’ll listen if you ever need me to.” Her chin caressed his palm. Thick black lashes fluttered and a smile graced her mouth.

His thumb edged under her chin; he leaned in and brought her face to his, then paused a moment, feeling her sweet breath against his lips, the warmth of her skin spreading across his face. Her lids opened, and her eyes stared into his, inviting him to come out, meet her fully and stop hiding behind his grief, his guilt. He shivered and drew back.

She frowned and gripped his hand firmer.

“Lacy, I’m not sure you want to get involved with me.”

“Or you don’t want to get involved with me?” She untangled her fingers from his.

“I’m not looking for involvement. And you’re probably not looking for a brief encounter.”

“Look, Chance. I lost Conrad three years ago. My world turned upside down, then I buried the only mother I’d ever known. My life has been work and grief. I’m ready to live again. I might be rather naïve, but you seem as attracted to me as I am to you. If I’m wrong—”

“You’re not wrong.” His heart rocked in his chest. The uneven gurgling of the stream matched his yo-yoing emotions while a bird chirping overhead mocked his indecision. “I can’t give as much as you might need.”

“What do you know about how much I need?”

He had no answer for her confrontational words. She rose on her knees as if ready to engage him in debate. Her head tilted, green, sparkling-gem eyes fixed him with a spell, and she draped inviting arms around his neck. Her fingers played in the back of his hair, tugged slightly on the leather tie and sent goose bumps over his neck. When her mouth brushed against his then stopped, her boldness turned shy.

His hesitancy melted away.

Her thin, gauze shirt presented no barrier to his hands when he clasped her waist. He brought her mouth back to his, but ever so lightly. His head lost the battle with desire when she nipped his bottom lip, then laid soft kisses on his cheek and forehead. He pulled her in, burying his face against her chest. The urge to taste every inch of her fired a longing deep and wild, and his kisses lapped at the warm, soft skin in the valley of her breasts above the edge of her blouse. He inhaled the patchouli-rose scent, reeling as if he’d drunk more wine than he had. The need to feel more, taste more fueled his movement, and he gathered the gauze against his palms until the bareness of her waist ignited the nerve endings in his fingertips.

She pushed his face firmer against her breasts.

Her invitation drove him on. The world shrunk until all he felt was her need mingled with his. All he heard was their breathing. His hands moved under her blouse, to the front, and cupped her lace-covered breasts. He spread kisses across her collarbone, tasted her neck, sweet and earthy, while he caressed the soft heat and hard nipples the lace did little to hide. The pulse below her ear ticked against his lower lip when he licked at her lobe. Her breath came faster and wet against his temple.

He wanted to push her back onto the blanket, peel her clothes from her like the skin from a ripe peach and taste every inch of her. Swollen with desire, he ached to bring her the pleasure she would bring him.

A brief warning flitted in the recesses of his mind, but as quick as it appeared, the discomfort his growing hardness created dispelled all caution. He uncrossed his legs, stretching them on each side of her kneeling posture, and she leaned into him as they lowered onto the blanket, rolling to their sides in an embrace.

With a deep-throated moan, she rushed into the kiss, telling him of her desire and needs.

Her hands loosened from his hair, slipped down his chest to the waistband of his jeans. With one hand still grasping her breast, he brought the other to her bottom, bringing her hard against the ache. He gripped her firmer, grinding his hips into her.

She arched, breaking the kiss, and shuttered. “Chance.” His name burst from her, shattering nature’s quiet.

He stilled.

The drunkenness her scent had caused cleared with the sobering realization of where he could take this all-consuming moment...and why he couldn’t. Why he wouldn’t.

“Chance?”

He breathed deep to steady his heart, his head. He cupped her face in his hands and brought her cheek against his chest. “Lacy, I’m sorry to move so fast.” A lame excuse, but he couldn’t put to words what stopped him.

She panted; hot, wet breath tingled the nipple beneath his shirt. He gulped for air. Her passion gripped him harder than expected. Her vulnerability increased the depth of her passion. He sensed her need for so much more than he had to offer. His demons reared their ugly heads, not yet slain even by the willingness of Lacy’s acceptance. No matter how badly he wanted her, he’d surely fall short of her needs and expectations as long as he couldn’t forget.

Still holding her tight, his breathing slowed. She raised her head, gazing at him, inches from his face. Her expression looked damned near sorrowful. Why in hell had he taken it this far only to withdraw? He’d been rash and consumed with his own desires and now...

“I think I’m the one moving too fast. I haven’t felt so attracted to a man since my husband died.” She cast her eyes down. “Perhaps I’ve embarrassed myself.”

“Lacy, no.” He tipped her chin to meet his gaze. “I don’t want to take advantage.”

“Advantage? I’m not a sixteen year old virgin, Sheriff.”

“And I’m not the sheriff on a white horse.”

“I didn’t think you were. I never went for perfect or saviors.” She smiled. “You don’t have to bring your past to the bed, Sheriff.”

“I can’t seem to shed my past that easily, Lacy.”

She rolled away, sitting with her back to him, looking up at the treetops. “I think you’re afraid. Big tough sheriff is afraid.” She peeked over her shoulder, stabbing him with a green-eyed glare.

“Damn it, Lacy. I’m thinking of you. Fear has nothing—”

“Sure as hell does. I’m a big girl. I don’t need you looking out for me—for my feelings or my safety. It’s not your job or your commitment. So stop being afraid you can’t perform some self-proclaimed hero status.”

Her words stung, but also incited. He didn’t need a woman he’d met a couple of days ago telling him what he did or didn’t feel. “You think you have me figured out after a few conversations?” He jerked into a sitting position, heat encircled his neck. He recognized the truth of her words, and the fact she’d succinctly stated what had fettered him for eight years, unnerved and shattered his reservations.

She arched a lovely brow; her mouth took on an I-told-you-so pout, and her tongue darted out in a slow wetting of her lips.

Blood pulsed in his ears, while her motion licked the anger away. He took a handful of her hair hanging down her back, let the silky black tresses glide over his palm. The breeze had stilled and the whole world seemed to be on hold for his next move.

A muffled cell tune split the air, echoed off the trees. Lacy laughed.

Air whooshed from his lungs. “If that’s your friend, Phoebe, she has a sadistic sense of timing.” He glanced toward the cycle.

She scooted around to face him, put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back onto the blanket. “I’m not going to answer it.” She studied his face, ran a finger along his chin, twice over the scar, then across his mouth. “I want another kiss, Sheriff. Just a kiss—so you can keep my good girl status intact, but enough of a kiss to make you think about me later.”

****

Lacy stood on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Chance straddled his Harley, and she considered kissing him but held back. They’d both been left to their own thoughts on the ride back to town. She wished she could read minds, divine what decisions he’d made after the volatile picnic they’d had.

His back and shoulders were tense as she’d purposely leaned into him, clutching his hips on the ride back, squeezing the last of his reluctance off the bike. When his back leaned slightly more into her, perhaps she’d been successful. She wanted this man; his determination to save her from him only made the ache that much more intense.

“So...dinner?” She brushed his thigh with her leg.

He chuckled. “Always hungry?”

“Must be the mountain air.” Or the mountain man.

“Are you sure, Lacy?” His gaze roamed her face.

She stared into his eyes, intent to get across just how sure she was. “Seven thirty?” He silently nodded as if his doubt lingered, but he was coming around.

His arm went to her waist, drew her close so she straddled his leg, and he kissed her. His lips stayed close and spoke against her mouth when he broke away. “What would you like to eat?”

She wanted to answer
you
, wanted to devour him right there on the sidewalk, but instead snickered to herself.

“I guess we can decide later,” he said and released her. “Seven thirty.”

He brought the bike to life, strapped on his helmet and nodded. She backed up, and he pulled away and disappeared around the corner.

Lacy glanced across the street. The White Wolf Spirit had closed, the sign flipped in the window. Old Chief must close early on Monday. Odd. She shrugged. No doubt, the sketches were safe with Chief. Chance could probably reach him after dinner, if she wanted to get her case tonight.

No one manned the desk when she entered the lobby of the Grand View. She scanned the counter top, but didn’t see the expected box with the chest. Maybe Phoebe hadn’t succeeded in getting it to her early, or maybe they’d put it in her room.

She ascended the burgundy-carpeted steps, the leaf pattern more intricate than she remembered only that morning. The gold walls glittered around her, and she caught a glimpse of herself in the black framed mirror at the top of the first landing. The smile she wore on the inside looked like the cat who’d caught the mouse on the outside. She shook her head and ascended the next flight. She’d not caught Chance Meadowlark, although she’d broken through the wall he’d built.

The key clicked in the lock, loud in the quiet hallway. She threw her things to the foot of the bed and flopped down, lying back on a pillow to stare at the ceiling. This short trip out of the valley and up to the high country with the premise of discovering the value of some sketches had turned into so much more—a discovery of her heritage and...lust...or something else.

Her breath came faster as images of Chance and the picnic flooded her thoughts. Lucky for her the professor wanted to see her tomorrow, giving her an excuse to linger in Flagstaff.

The professor. Her mother, Kaya. Finding out what had really gone on between them raked her thoughts. Could Kaya have been pregnant when Hartmut entered her life? Carol had made it sound as if she was with the professor one day and Hartmut the next. The timing of her birth, the professor’s green eyes and his avoidance of talking about what happened when the dashing Austrian came to town shrouded her entrance into this world with suspicion. She now knew the truth about the sketches, but finding out the truth about herself, about her mother’s actions, had become far more important.

Just like discovering what she truly felt for Chance.

She rose up on her elbows, and her attention was caught by something on the floor. Rolling to her side, she reached down and picked up a folded sheaf of paper. Someone must have slipped it under the door earlier in the day. One edge of the paper had been raggedly torn from a spiral notebook. She unfolded the slip of white notepaper.