Kansas City Secrets (8 page)

The soft gaze that had held his for so long dropped to his chin. Her skin blanched to a shade of alabaster that absorbed the harsh green color of the neon sign. He didn't like that unnatural color on her. He didn't like feeling like a first-class rat for blanking the color from her skin.

“Hey, I...” Max pulled his cigar from his mouth with one hand and reached for a red tendril with the other. Although she startled at his touch, she didn't immediately pull away this time. Instead, she watched his hand as he sifted the silky copper through his fingers. “I'm sorry, Rosie. I'm having a really sucky day. It's hard to see the good in anything or anybody tonight.”

“You're not always like this?”

He chuckled at the doubtful face she made. “Some say I am. But on this one day every year, I'm an extra sorry SOB.”

“I wish you wouldn't swear like that. I get that you're angry, already.”

Oh, he was angry, all right. At himself. At friends who died. At failing to save them.

“I get that you're hurting. Did something bad happen?”

“Yeah. Something very bad happened. To a friend of mine.” She'd tilted her eyes up to his, bravely held his gaze. Maybe it was a trick of the lights and shadows, but from this angle, standing this close, her eyes filled with compassion, maybe even a little of that same odd awareness he'd been feeling about her. A man could lose himself in the deep, soft shadows of her eyes if he wasn't careful. As uncomfortable with her intuition about him as he was with the male interest stirring deep inside him, he pulled his fingers from her hair and retreated. “You said your daddy served?”

She nodded, retreating a step herself. “He flew troop transports and cargo planes until he retired from active duty. Later, he commanded a local unit in the National Guard.”

Max thought of the unseen pilots and navigators who'd flown him, Jimmy and the rest of their battered squad from the Middle East into Germany. Another transport had finally brought them and the caskets of their fallen friends stateside. The world was a mighty small place in some ways. “He flew soldiers home?”

“Sometimes. Is that important?”

Those pretty, intuitive eyes snuck right past his survival armor. An image of Jimmy's frozen dark eyes blipped through his thoughts.
Never leave a man behind
. He crushed the memory that left him reeling and grabbed her arm, pulling her into step beside him and striding down the sidewalk. “Where's your car? I'll walk you to it and then follow you back to your house.”

But when he stepped off the curb he stumbled. His momentum pulled her against his chest for a split second, imprinting his body from neck to thigh with her warm curves, filling his head with that damnable clean scent he wanted to bury himself in.

“On second thought, maybe you'd better drive.”

She was the one who grabbed a fistful of shirt and his shoulder to steady him and guide him back to the sidewalk. “You're drunk, aren't you?”

There was that snappy, righteous tone again. Her eyes had gone cold. “That was my goal, honey. It helps me forget.”

Rosie didn't waste any time pushing away. “This was a mistake. I thought you were different.”

“You are the most confounding woman...” With his emotions off the chart, his hormones twisted up in a mix of lustful curiosity and a craving for the peaceful solace he'd read in her eyes—not to mention the four beers he'd drunk since dinner—Max tossed his unlit cigar into the gutter and stopped her from walking away. “Did something scare you tonight or not?”

He spun her around and pulled her up onto her toes, bringing her lips close enough to steal a kiss if he wanted to. And, by hell, he wanted to.

Shifting his hands to the copper bounty of her hair, Max tunneled his fingers into the silky waves and pulled her mouth to his. With a gasp of surprise, her lips parted and Max took advantage of the sudden softening of that preachy mouth by capturing her lower lip between his. He drew his tongue along the supple curve, tasting something tart and lemony there. Her lip trembled at his hungry exploration. He felt the tiny tremor like a timid caress and throttled back on his blind need. Another breath whispered across his cheek, and he waited for the shove against his chest. But her fingers tightened in the front of his shirt, instead, pressing little fingerprints into the muscles of his chest, and she pushed her lips softly against his mouth, returning the kiss.

Something twisted and hard, full of rage and regret, unknotted inside him at her unexpected acceptance of his desire. Frustration faded. Anger disappeared. The wounds of guilt and grief that had been festering inside him all day calmed beneath her tender response. He threaded his fingers into the loose twist of her bun, pushing aside pins and easing the taut style until her hair was sifting between his fingers and his palms were cupping the gentle curve of her head. “Your hair's too pretty to keep it tied up the way you do, Rosie. Too sexy.”

“Detective Krol—” He kissed her temple, her forehead, reclaimed her lips once more. He'd reached for her in a haze of frustration and desire, but she was holding on with a gentle grasp and angling her mouth beneath his. It wasn't a passionate kiss. It wasn't seductive or stylized. It was an honest kiss. It was the kind of kiss a man was lucky to get once or twice in his life. It was a perfect kiss. Beauty was taming the beast.

Or merely distracting him?

Detective?

Ah, hell. He quickly released her and backed away, his hands raised in apology. “Did something scare you tonight...besides me?”

“You didn't scare me,” she lied. Her fingers hovered in the air for a few seconds before she clasped them around the strap of her purse.

Max scraped his palm over the top of his head, willing his thoughts to clear. “Just answer the damn question.”

She nodded.

She wasn't here for the man. She was here for the cop. He'd like to blame the booze that had lowered his inhibitions and done away with his common sense, but fuzzy headed or sober, he knew he'd crossed too many lines with Rosie March today. “I think this is where you slap my face and call me some rotten name.”

Her eyes opened wide. “I wouldn't do that.”

“No, I don't suppose a lady like you would.”

Her lips were pink and slightly swollen from his beard stubble. Her hair was a sexy muss, and part of him wanted nothing more than to kiss her again, to bury his nose in her scent and see if she would wind her arms around his neck and align her body to his as neatly as their mouths had fit together. But she was hugging her arms around her waist instead of him, pressing that pretty mouth back into its tightly controlled line. When had he ever hauled off and kissed a woman like that? With her history, she'd probably been frightened by his behavior and had given him what she thought he wanted in hopes of appeasing him, counting the seconds until he let her slip away. She had to be terrified, desperate, to come to him after this morning's encounter. The fact that she wasn't running away from him right now had to be a testament to her strength—or just how desperate she was to have someone from KCPD believe in her. And, for some reason, she'd chosen him to be her hero.

Max scrubbed his palm over his jaw. He hadn't played hero for anybody in a long time. He hadn't been any good at it since Jimmy's suicide. He did his job, period. He didn't care. He didn't get involved. This woman was waking impulses in him that were so rusty from lack of use that it caused him pain to feel himself wanting to respond to her request. “What do you need from me?”

She tucked that glorious fall of hair behind her ears and tried to smooth it back into submission. “I think I'm in real trouble. And I don't know what to do. KCPD thinks I might be a killer, so they're not taking me seriously and won't look into these threats. But I thought that you...maybe you'd set aside your suspicions and do it for my dad. I know it's an imposition, and I know you'd rather be investigating me for murder than deal with some unknown stalker you think I made up, but—”

“You're right, Rosie. I was a soldier. Sergeant First Class, US Army. A man like your dad brought me and my buddies home from a hell of a fight where we lost too many good men.” For the first time in a lot of months, on that flight across the Atlantic, he'd been able to close his eyes and sleep eight hours straight, knowing he and his men were safe from the enemy as long as they were on that plane. “What was your daddy's name?”

“Colonel Stephen March.”

“Maybe I don't owe the colonel personally. But I owe.” She'd appealed to the soldier in him, tapped into that sense of duty he'd once answered without hesitation. She had him pegged a lot sooner than he was figuring her out. “And I owe you for putting up with me on my worst day.”

“Is there something I can do to help? Besides...” She ran her tongue around her lips, maybe still tasting some of the need he'd stamped there. “I'm a very good listener.”

He grumbled a wry laugh. So, no offer to repeat that kiss, eh? “Just give me a chance to be a better man than the one you met today.”

“You'll come look? You'll help me?”

Either he was the world's biggest sucker, or Rosie March was in real danger and she believed he was her best chance at staying safe. Whether he was doing this for her or her dad or to atone for all the mistakes he'd made today—all the mistakes he'd made in the past eight years—he was doing it. “Yes, ma'am.” Wisely keeping his hands to himself this time, he gestured for her to lead the way to her car. “Let's go find this lowlife.”

Chapter Six

“Why do you swear so much?” Rosemary glanced away from the stoplight to the big, looming silence sitting beside her in the passenger seat of her car. Although the beard stubble on his square jaw took on a burnished glow from the lights from the dashboard, Max Krolikowski's craggy face remained hidden in shadows. And while she normally appreciated the absence of any confrontation, ten miles without one word left her questioning the wisdom of this last-resort plan to seek him out as an ally.

“Like you said. I'm angry.”

And hurting. He said something bad had happened to a friend. If there was one thing she understood about people, it was the stages of pain and grief a person went through when he or she lost someone or something very dear to them. She'd gone through them with her parents, her brother's drug use and murder conviction. Her relationship with Richard. Denial. Anger. Sadness. Acceptance. Only, Max Krolikowski seemed to be stuck in an endless loop of anger and pain.

The light changed and she drove through the intersection. His fingers drummed a silent rhythm on the armrest of the car door. Was that endless tapping an indication that his temper was still simmering beneath the surface? She remembered those strong fingers tangled in her hair, holding her mouth beneath his. He'd used words like
pretty
and
sexy
—and she'd believed him. For that moment, at least.

Richard had never used words like that with her. She'd looked nice. She'd do him proud at a family dinner or business luncheon. And Richard's embraces had never been so spontaneous, so unabashedly sensual.

When Max Krolikowski kissed her, she'd felt that knee-jerk instinct to flee from the unfamiliar, from the potential danger of the unknown. But she'd felt something else, too. She'd felt need. She'd felt heartache. She'd sensed a hopeless man discovering some shred of hope.

Or maybe she was the one who'd succumbed to the need to be held and wanted and important to someone—even for a few seconds outside a noisy bar. Because once he'd gentled his kiss, once she understood there was something besides anger driving his embrace, she'd become a willing participant. A shyly eager partner. Out of her depth, perhaps, but not afraid.

There was something bold, raw and honest about Max's emotions that was completely foreign in her experience with men. But she'd take that kind of blunt honesty, that disruptive force of nature, over Richard's cool charm any day. Richard's cruelty had been a blindside waiting to happen. At least with Detective Krolikowski, she knew to expect the unexpected.

Which brought her thoughts around to the question she'd really wanted to ask. “Why did you kiss me?”

“I saw the chance. I took it. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

And now? Did he still think she was...kissable? Rosemary's hands tightened around the steering wheel as the next question came out in a throaty whisper. “Is that what you want from me?”

The drumming stopped. “You mean like payment for helping you out?” He muttered a succinct curse.

“Language, Detective.”

“Wow. Your opinion of me must be lower than I thought.” His voice was deep and resonant and laced with contempt. “Don't lecture me on my mouth and insult me at the same time. If you're going to treat me like a degenerate, I might as well talk like one.”

Rosemary's grip pulsed around the wheel as a defensive temper flared in her veins. “I wasn't insulting you. I'm just trying to understand what's happening between us. My experience with men is rather limited, and hasn't been entirely positive. I haven't had control over a lot that's happened in my life. And now some creep is trying to undermine what little sense of security I do have.” She glanced across the seat and found deep blue eyes bearing down on her. She quickly turned her attention back to the neighborhood streets and took a deep breath to cool her outburst and resume an even tone. “I need to understand so I won't be caught off guard again. As for the swearing? If you need to use those words to get your emotions out, then go ahead, I'll get used to it. But they remind me of someone I'd rather not think of.”

“Bratcher? Is that how he talked to you?”

The accuracy of his guess made the scars on her chest burn with remembered terror of her erudite fiancé transforming into Mr. Hyde. She rubbed at her collarbone through the linen dress she wore, willing the memories to subside before they could take hold. Max waited with surprising patience until she nodded. “Ninety percent of the time, Richard was the perfect gentleman. But sometimes, in private, he'd blow up.”

“Probably when you had a difference of opinion or you tried to assert yourself?”

Rosemary exhaled a breath that buzzed her lips, her temper cooling to match the facade. Max was sounding more like a cop now. And with the finger of suspicion pointed elsewhere for a change, she found his questions easier to answer. “Once he put that ring on my finger, he changed. I knew then it was just about the money. He didn't love me. I didn't realize just how much he loved that settlement money, though.”

“Rosie, I'm not aiming any of those words at you, and I don't mean to offend you. It's just I'm a bull in a china shop and you're a piece of china.”

She had the scars, inside and out, to scoff at half of that idea. “I'm not fragile. It's just...I'd rather not hear them.”

His disbelieving laugh was a deep, hearty tone from his barrel chest. “Yes, ma'am. I'll try to do better.”

Despite the suspicion that he might be mocking her, Rosemary nodded her thanks. “That's all I ask.”

They drove an entire block before he surprised her by continuing the conversation. “I wasn't thinking when I kissed you, either. I was just doing what felt right at that moment. Look, I admit, I've had a few drinks, and I'm not that great at filtering my thoughts and emotions in the first place. You smelled good.”

She
smelled
good? How could such a simple phrase feel as flattering as being called
pretty
or
sexy
? Frankly, she thought she might need a shower after the stress and heat of the day. But his words made her lips tighten against the urge to grin.

He shrugged, his big shoulders seeming to fill the empty space inside her car as he searched for more of an explanation. She could feel the warmth emanating from his body when he turned in his seat to face her and gripped the wheel more tightly to keep from leaning toward it.

“Rosie, I didn't analyze it. I felt like kissing you. The opportunity was there, so I did.”

After this morning's battle of wills, she'd been certain the rather earthy Max Krolikowski wouldn't give her a second look—unless he was throwing darts at her picture. “I didn't think I was your type.”

“Neither did I.” He sank back into his seat with a low exhale. His eyes drifted shut. “Don't worry. I won't let it happen again. I'm a cop, doing the job I should have done this morning. I'm not expecting any favors from you.”

Now, why did that reassurance kill any urge to smile? Ignoring her uncalled-for disappointment, Rosemary turned her car into the driveway and shut off the engine. When she saw the dark expanse of her porch and heard the dogs barking inside, it was easy to remember that she'd asked him here to help with the threats, not the loneliness. “We're here. I didn't touch anything except for the note.” She pointed to the street lamp behind them. “There's a little light from the street, but if you need a flashlight, there's one in the glove compartment.”

He pulled out the flashlight and tested it before shutting the compartment and climbing out. When he hesitated outside his door, Rosemary did the same. He scrubbed his hand across his jaw, a habit that drew her attention to its firm, square shape and the intriguing mix of tawny, gold and brown stubble there. Richard had always been clean-shaven. But Max's day-old beard had been a sharp contrast against her softer skin. His beard had been ticklish, abrading, stimulating—his lips and tongue had been soothing in the aftermath.

Fortunately, he spoke before she succumbed to the silly urge to run her tongue across her lips, remembering what he'd felt like there.

“You know, if you get mad at me, I'm not going to hurt you like Bratcher did. I know I talk loud and need to clean up my act, but I would never lay a hand on you in anger.” His gaze found hers when she didn't immediately respond. “I'm not going to leave, either. I said I'd help, and I promise to do what I can.”

“For my dad.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind and circled around the hood of her car, ending the conversation and slipping into detective mode. “Yeah. For your dad. Hooah.”

HUA. Heard. Understood. Acknowledged.

Nodding at the military acknowledgment she remembered her dad using, Rosemary followed him up onto the porch. When Max stumbled over the top step, she instinctively reached out to help him. But he caught her arm instead, urging her back behind him while he swept the beam of light over the upended rocking chair, splintered wood and shattered glass littering her porch. “Son of a—” He bit off the curse and released her. “Somebody was smart enough to avoid triggering the alarm—or else plain lucky. This is a lot of rage. Who blames you for your fiancé's death?”

“Who doesn't?” He swung the light over to her, hiding his opinion of her flippant remark in the shadows. Rosemary shook her head, not understanding how a dead man could still be wreaking so much havoc in her world. “I wasn't holding Richard to any promises. I broke off our engagement. I wanted him out of my life.”

“Murder is a permanent way to do that.”

She pushed the flashlight aside to look him in the eye. “How many times do I have to say it? I did not kill Richard. The only reason I was at his condo that morning was to tell him to stop threatening Stephen with trumped-up charges. He thought blackmailing me would convince me to take him back, but Howard, my new attorney, helped me get a restraining order. I wanted to deliver it to him myself—prove that he couldn't intimidate me anymore.”

“But you didn't get to say any of that. You found him dead?”

She nodded, squeezing her eyes shut against the horrible memory of Richard's dead, discolored body. But his puffy blue lips weren't the only detail she recalled. She hugged her arms around her waist before opening her eyes and looking up at Max again. “I could tell he'd been there with another woman. There were condoms on the nightstand and her perfume was still in the bedding.”

“He cheated on you, threatened you, abused you. A jury would see that as a lot of motive to kill a man.” At her wounded sigh, Max's big hand clamped around hers before she could storm away. “But I'll start working on the assumption that you didn't. Maybe we can track down this other woman. See what she knows.”

She remembered her confrontation with Charleen Grimes that morning. Charleen had been so certain that Rosemary was responsible for ending her lover's life. Could that have been a show to hide her own culpability? There'd certainly been plenty of witnesses to her accusations. Still, why would Charleen want to kill the man she professed to love? Rosemary had a feeling the affair had been a tempestuous one. But poison wasn't exactly a spur-of-the moment weapon.

“Rosie?” Max's growly voice interrupted her thoughts. “If you know who the other woman was, I'm going to need that information. The best way to prove your innocence is to find out who really killed your ex.”

Rosemary tugged her hand from his grasp and tried to gauge the sincerity of his words. “You believe me?”

“I promised to help.”

Not exactly a rousing vote of confidence. But she was scared enough to take it. She gestured to the mess on her porch. “Do you at least believe I'm not doing this to myself?”

“I think I need a clearer head to make sense of what's going on here.” He swung the flashlight toward the sound of the dogs barking behind the door. “Sounds like they need to get out and run around. You got coffee?”

“I can make a pot.”

“Do it. Give the dogs a few minutes outside, then keep them in the house with you. Wait. We'll go in through the back. I want to get pictures of the damage before anything is moved. I want to bag that note of yours, too.”

He made no attempt to touch her again but fell into step beside her to walk her down the driveway. With every passing second, he was becoming more cop, more man of duty, rather than the tipsy desperado who'd pulled her into his arms and kissed her because he thought it was a good idea at the time. She should be grateful for his professionalism, for the distance he put between them now. That would make it easier to keep her guard up and stay focused on the problems she needed to deal with.

“You got a toolbox somewhere?” he asked, waiting for her to unlock the back door.

“Yes. Dad's workbench is still out in the garage.”

“Then I'll need it open, too.” After she gave him the pass code, he waited for her to air the dogs, even tussling a little bit with Duchess and Trixie himself, before urging them all back into the house and telling her to lock the door.

Rosemary fed the dogs a treat, brewed a fresh pot of coffee and pulled the makings for a simple sandwich from her fridge.

An hour later, she carried the last of the coffee to the front door to refill Max's mug before she washed the dishes. She could do this. She could grab his plate and fill his mug and get back to the kitchen without getting herself into any uncomfortable conversation or unwanted physical contact with the man. Although the dogs were eager to spend more time with their new friend on the porch, she shooed them behind her before stepping out to find Max putting the finishing touches on replacing her mailbox.

“Want the last cup?” she offered.

“Sure. I'm going to have a whale of a headache in the morning, but the food and caffeine help.” He nodded toward the empty mug and plate on the bench he'd moved beside the rocking chair to replace the broken table.