Cold Target (21 page)

He nodded. “Go through him. Don't talk to Fuller on your own.”

“Why? Do you think he's the one—?”

“He's not the one who tried to run you down or tossed your home,” he said. “I checked again on his movements that night. He was on duty. In fact he was booking a suspect at the time of your attack.” He hesitated, then added, “But he might have taken advantage of the attack on you and made the anonymous calls. And if he's taken that first step, it could lead do something else. He could take his rage out on either you or Nan. He has a lot of it inside.”

“Should he be on the force?”

“No,” he said.

“Then why is he?”

“Years ago, I partnered with a man. I often went to his home. I liked his wife tremendously. I never saw the signs. Not until I visited her in the hospital and realized he'd badly beaten her. I told my superior and advised his wife to press charges. He was suspended. The next day he killed her.” His fingers fumbled with his glass, and when she met his gaze, she saw a hint of dampness in his eyes. Gage Gaynor.
The tough cop
. So that was why he had been at the hearing.

“You're that worried about Nan?”

“Yes,” he said shortly.

She took a sip of wine. “There has to be something.…”

“I'll watch him. Perhaps we can get something on him that has nothing to do with Nan.”

That was obviously the best he could do. Much more than she had expected. She changed the subject. She had to, before she became lost in those green eyes that were no longer cool, or icy, but intense with emotion.

“How is the Prescott case coming? Have you contacted my father yet?” Then she realized how telling that question was. She should know. Her father should have told her if the police had contacted him.

If he caught the implication, he ignored it. “I've been taken off the case,” he said. “I'm now on active homicides.”

“You weren't on it very long, were you?”

“Nope.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“No. Not because I won't, but because I can't. I really wasn't given a reason other than I'm needed elsewhere.”

“Why didn't someone realize that earlier?”

“That's an excellent question, Counselor.”

At first, she'd been annoyed by his use of “Counselor,” almost as if it were an insult. Now it sounded more like respect. “I don't understand.”

“I was given the case by one superior and it was taken away by another,” he said. “Not only that, I was taken off cold cases altogether and moved to active homicides. That's not only unusual, it's unheard of. It has to be the shortest tour of duty in departmental history.”

He was telling her something other than the main recital of facts. “Someone called you off.”

“Looks that way.”

“Who?”

His gaze bore into hers.

“No,” she said. “My father wouldn't do that.” But even she heard the doubt in her voice.

“But is it possible?”

She searched his face for a long time. “He was never implicated in the slightest way.”

“He was the last person known to see Prescott. The case was closed too quickly and was never investigated thoroughly. And now this closure. Could your father have that kind of influence?”

She shook her head, sharp edges of disappointment cutting into what had been a growing pleasure at being with him. “My father would not be involved with anything as messy as a coverup,” she said. “Much less a murder. I suggest you look elsewhere.”

He took a roll from the basket just delivered to their table. “Well, I'm off it anyway. Tell me more about Meredith Rawson.”

She was cautious this time. “Not much to tell.”

“What do you like to do in your spare time?”

“What spare time?”

The left side of his lips turned up slightly. “A work-aholic?”

“A private practice with one attorney requires it.”

“Okay, what about the rare occasions when you do have time?”

“A good book. Good music. Theater.”

“No significant other?”

“That's a personal question.”

“Maybe I have a personal interest.”

His voice had lowered, his drawl deepened. The air of expectancy thickened between them. She had to keep telling herself he had just practically accused her father of conspiracy. He wanted something from her, just as her father had always wanted something from her.

“No,” she said.

“That's hard to believe. You're a very attractive woman.”

Not beautiful. Not lovely. Both terms that applied to her mother. Yet his gaze told her he did think her attractive. And desirable. She felt as if she could get lost in those eyes. How had she ever thought them cold? They were green fire now.

She was saved from having to reply by the server who delivered two steaming plates of barbecue shrimp, a Louisiana delicacy that required extremely indelicate eating. The shelled shrimp rested in a butter barbeque sauce. Several packages of wet towels accompanied the meal.

Directing her gaze toward the food and away from the very disturbing man across from her, she picked up a shrimp with her fingers, sauce dripping from it, and tasted it slowly, savoring every flavor.

Then she made the mistake of looking up. He was watching her with amusement in his face though his eyes still glittered with something close to lust.

She licked her lips and met his stare head-on. “Gage,” she said, using his name for the first time, her tongue playing over the sound of it. “Where did the name come from? I never heard it before.”

“My mother loved movies. She told me it came from one, but I've never been able to find it.”

“And your brother?”

“Clint. The movie star.”

“And your mother?”

“She died years ago.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” No emotion now. But she knew he rarely showed emotion.

His reply reminded her of her own mother. She had planned to go back tonight.

“How is your mother?”

So he had read her mind again. He had a habit of doing that.

“Holding her own. I'll stop over there later.”

“I'll follow you,” he said in that deep, sexy voice that caused her heart to beat a steady tattoo in her chest. There was obviously to be no discussion. She could no more stop him from following her than she'd been able to the other night.

Her appetite left her, fading in the intensity that had deepened rather than lessened with the delivery of the food. She watched as he tackled the slippery, buttery shrimp with his fingers, the only way to eat them. His expression of unabashed pleasure made her pulse speed up.

She took a sip of wine and concentrated on her own meal. She tried another shrimp, licking the butter sauce from her lips. Sinful and messy, they were delectable.

Then she made the mistake of looking at him again. He was smiling, a dimple she hadn't noticed before indenting his chin. She felt riveted by his attention, as if a force field enveloped them, shutting out every other person in the room.

Somehow she finished the shrimp. They both declined dessert and he paid the bill, despite her protest. He quieted it with one look, then pulled out her chair in a courtly manner that she had not expected. His hand rested on her shoulder, his touch burning straight through to her soul.

He took her hand as they left the restaurant. Natural. It felt so very natural. Her long fingers fit his large hand perfectly and she found herself drawing closer to him. An almost palpable tension leapt between them, filling her with a raw need so strong and deep that it was like a body blow.

They reached the car, but instead of opening the door for her, he put his arms around her, pressing her back against the door. He leaned down and his lips slowly lowered to meet hers, skimming more than pressing, as if posing their own question. Her mouth caressed his, assenting—no, more than assenting. Asking. Wanting. Demanding, even, in some primitive way she couldn't control. Her mind warned, but her body responded as their lips explored and teased, and liking the taste, ventured further.

Laughter interrupted like a splash of freezing water. Obviously reluctant, he drew away slightly and looked at her. “I'm afraid we're making a spectacle of ourselves.”

Meredith felt like a teenager in love for the first time, and the thought terrified her. She straightened, trying to gather her wits about her. “We had better go,” she said, hearing the hoarseness in her own voice.

He raised his right hand and touched her cheek. “I could …”

But he stopped himself and his hand fell. He lowered the other arm that had held her against the car, and opened the door. She noticed his hand had a slight tremor. Did hers, too?

Her body still reacting to the feel of his, her lips slightly swollen from his kiss, her blood racing from the unexpected explosion of sensations, she stepped inside.

Dear Mother in heaven but she wanted him.

He got in his side of the car. “A nightcap at my house?” he asked as his gaze met hers.

The invitation was too beguiling to refuse. She wanted to know more about Gage Gaynor. Much more.

She swallowed hard, fighting conflicting needs.

“Yes,” she finally said.

fourteen

N
EW
O
RLEANS

It was all Gage could do to keep his gaze from her.

He knew the dangers of allowing his attention to wander from the road. God knew he'd seen enough disaster that resulted from distraction.

It was equally difficult to keep his hand from reaching for hers.

He couldn't quite believe the intensity of his feelings, of the need resounding inside. It wasn't all sexual, though he would be lying if he said that wasn't part of it. Sexual wouldn't be dangerous.

This
was
dangerous. He liked her. He was intrigued by her. He wanted to be with her. Worst of all, he knew he would rather be with her than paddling the bayous in his canoe.

He caught himself smiling at that.

“Hey,” she said.

He glanced quickly in her direction.

“You're smiling.”

“Is that so odd?”

“No, I like it,” she said.

He liked it, too. He felt more relaxed than he had in years. Relaxed yet energized at the same time. Expectant.

Damn.

He stole another glance at her. The hot humid wind had ruffled her short hair, making her look more approachable. Her cheeks were flushed and her usually guarded blue eyes sparkled.

He drove to his house, which was not far from her office, and pulled into the drive. A canoe was visible in the fenced backyard, as well as a patch of roses that always embarrassed him when someone else saw it. Gaynor and roses. He'd always imagined he saw amusement in the eyes of his visitors.

As she stepped out of the car, even before he could get to her door, he saw her gaze turn toward the roses, then the canoe. “Is that why you have the rack on top?”

“Yes.”

She smiled at his short and relatively uninformative answer. “I have never been canoeing.”

His own words startled him. “I'd like to take you. I usually keep it at a small place I own but it needed some mending.”

“Where?”

“A bayou south of here. It's peaceful there.”

“And you like peace?” An element of surprise shaded her voice.

“If you had grown up where I did, you'd like peace, too.”

She was silent. He knew she was probably aware of where he grew up. It would have been in the background information she'd gathered when he had testified.

The silence served to emphasize the difference between them. She had grown up in the mansions of New Orleans, he in the slums. She had probably gone to the best private schools; he had attended the worst public schools and had gained a scholarship only because he'd realized athletics was the fastest way out.

The fact that he'd once thought that skill would equalize him with her kind had proved a fantasy.

Remember that
.

Then he heard Beast, who tore out of his dog door into the fenced backyard, racing around and barking furiously until he saw Gage. The dog came to an abrupt stop, tipped his head to regard the newcomer and let his long tongue loll out.

“This is Beast,” he said. “He won't hurt you. Truth is, he wouldn't hurt a flea, but he scares the hell out of everyone.”

She went to the fence and held out her hand. Beast first sniffed, then licked it with embarrassing eagerness.

She knelt. “Hi,” she told the animal.

Beast palpitated with happiness.

“I'm going to sue you for alienation of affections,” he said.

“But you need a witness,” she retorted.

“One look at Beast slobbering over you would convince a jury.”

A sly, mischievous smile curved her lips. “I can't help it. He's very charming.”

“I've never heard that particular term used for Beast,” he said with amusement. “Are you insinuating he's more charming than I am?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I can't answer on the grounds it might incriminate me.”

He gazed down at her with an odd sense of contentment settling deep inside him. What was it about her that made him feel comfortable?

“It's hell to come in second to something that looks like Beast.” He turned toward the front door, taking her hand as he did. She didn't resist, and her fingers curled around his.

Gage unlocked the front door and led her in, wondering what she would think about his odd little house.

Thank God, the housekeeper had been there three days earlier and he hadn't had a chance to trash it over the weekend. It was acceptable, though not, he knew, what she must be accustomed to. He knew where she lived, where her father lived. It was only a few miles away but it might as well be another world.

She stepped in, and Beast was there, having made his way through the dog door. He panted heavily but sat down in front of her and offered his paw.