Memories of Us (12 page)

Doing the same thing with Celia to keep a sexual fling going was insane. As good, as incredible as the sex had been, it wasn’t worth this crap.

“Hey, Cookie!” The youngest deputy yelled across the road and Cook glanced around at the nickname. “No kid in the van. Just the driver.”

Relief swamped Tom, weakening his legs.
Thank God.
He lowered his head, trying to clear the roar of blood in his ears. He felt used up, worn out. Blowing out a harsh breath, he straightened and glanced around for Celia. Other than that blood-curdling scream when the truck had struck the van, she’d been remarkably composed.

Cold. Removed. The perfect cop.

He watched her talk to Cook across the roof of the unmarked patrol car, her fine features tense and closed. She shook her head at something Cook said, her gaze tangling with his own for a brief moment before she turned away deliberately.

He stiffened his stance. Hell, no, she wasn’t worth it. No woman was. His belly, still jumping with stress and anger, tightened to match the weird constriction in his chest. When he saw her again, he’d tell her it was over. He chuckled, a harsh and rusty sound, and turned away to his car as she climbed into the patrol unit with Cook. Like she’d care. It had never meant anything to her anyway.

He’d
never meant anything.

“I’m sure you can answer our questions.” Celia narrowed her eyes at the man framed by the wide oak doorway. At his feet, sunlight glinted off white Italian marble. To match his Italian loafers, she supposed. If the house, his clothes and the expensive import sedan in the driveway were anything to judge by, money wasn’t a problem for Mr. and Mrs. Wesley Porter Campbell.

Wesley frowned. “What is this about anyway?”

Beside her, Cook popped his gum. “Earlier in the week, you applied for a certificate for a home birth. Is that why your wife isn’t feeling well?”

“Oh, God.” Wesley passed a hand over his eyes.

Celia, sensing weakness, pounced. “However, the clerk of court tells us you claimed later you didn’t need it. Would you like to explain that?”

He stepped back then. “Maybe you should come inside.”

With Cook, she entered the high-ceilinged foyer. Light from a sparkling chandelier dappled the floor. Wesley led the way into a formal living room off the foyer, furnished in rich shades of gold and cream. He crossed to stand at the fireplace, staring at the photos lining the mantel in polished platinum frames.

“So what happened to the baby, Mr. Campbell?” Celia asked, keeping her voice quiet and even.

“We tried for years to get pregnant.” Wesley turned, the lines around his mouth and eyes suddenly deeper. “All Ashley wants is a child. She…she has had health issues that kept us from pursuing adoption through a state agency. My father has a rather large farming interest here and he employs a number of migrant workers. One of the girls…she said she didn’t want the baby, and Ashley was so desperate. I paid for her medical care, paid
her
…”

His voice trailed away and Celia glanced at Cook, his sharp gaze trained on the other man. “And?”

A shuddering sigh shook Wesley’s frame. “She changed her mind. Took the baby and ran off to north Florida, where her mother lives, her roommate says. So we didn’t need the birth certificate after all. Ashley…Ashley hasn’t gotten out of bed since Wednesday.”

Cook folded his arms over his chest, department polo straining against his biceps. “You can’t buy a baby, Mr. Campbell. It’s against the law.”

Wesley’s entire face went taut, an ugly light entering his eyes. “We’d have given that baby everything. What kind of life can she offer her?”

Shaking his head, Cook pulled his notebook from his pocket. “We’ll need the roommate’s name and address.”

He scribbled as Wesley rattled off the information. When he was finished, he lifted his head. “Just out of curiosity, what’s the going rate for a healthy infant these days?”

A flush spread over Wesley’s cheekbones. “I’ve told you what you wanted to know. I’d like you both to leave now.”

Outside, Celia glanced back at the imposing brick façade of the Georgian design. “Did you believe him?”

Cook snorted. “Not enough that I’m not going to check out every aspect of his story. Did you hear him? He actually believes there’s nothing wrong with what he did.”

She pulled open the passenger door. “What do you do when the kid gets older? How do you tell her she was bought and paid for?”

Cook shook his head. “He said ‘her’. The baby they were going to purchase was a girl.”

“So was our Baby Doe.”

He fired the engine. “He’d better hope his story checks out.”

She’d had blood on her face.

Tom leaned against the wall outside the conference room in the chamber of commerce building. He couldn’t shake that vision—Celia, cold, composed, blood trickling from a small cut on her chin. If they’d been a few seconds sooner, if they’d been ahead of the van, it could have been so much worse.

If they hadn’t had that stupid argument over who was driving.

A disagreement he’d instigated because of another vision—pictures of blood and Celia’s face, crumpled metal—tumbling through his head as they left the office.

He shuddered. A coincidence. It didn’t mean anything. None of it did—the flashes of foreboding, the images, the dreams, the fantasies. If it meant anything at all, it was the fact he was working too hard again.

The impulse he’d had to take control, to drive, was just that, a weird urge that had ultimately worked in his favor. In Celia’s favor. He stiffened, tension creeping up his neck. No more thinking about her. No more thinking about the odd flickers of awareness and compulsions that had been part of him forever.

He stared at the new carpet under his shoes, tracing the golden curlicues in the hunter green background. His vision blurred and he blinked, fighting off the questions and guilt he knew were coming. The what-ifs that had damned his entire adult life.

What if he hadn’t let Kathleen sleep that morning?

What if he’d turned back at the door to check on Everett?

What if he’d blown off the fact he was running late for class?

What if he’d given in to the sense of foreboding and walked back to the nursery, lifted his sleeping son, woken him?

Irritated, he ran a hand over his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t change any of that. If-onlys didn’t do anything but make a man crazy. They weren’t good enough for a judge or jury. He dealt in facts and the facts were easy. His son was dead. He hadn’t been enough for Kathleen. She was out of his life forever. He was alone.

The absolute rightness of having Celia wrapped around him filtered through him and he straightened with a muttered oath. Having sex with Celia St. John didn’t change his reality and had probably been his most asinine decision to date. She hadn’t been able to get away from him fast enough, last night or this morning.

Hell, he wasn’t enough for her either.

“Tom.” Rhett’s voice cut through his reverie and he looked up. Rhett watched him, his ebony gaze inquisitive. A wave of heat flushed Tom’s neck. How many times had the ADA called him, anyway?

Tom cleared his throat. “Yes?”

Rhett jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Meeting’s cancelled. Bob Harrell’s daughter-in-law was killed in that accident this morning. He’s gone to be with his son.”

“Damn.” The ache between his eyes pulsed, and Tom pinched his nose again. Harrell, the county-commission chairman, was a good man, who’d recently celebrated the birth of his first grandchild. Tom hated that the morning’s carnage affected his family. Or any family.

He lifted his head to focus on Rhett. “We’re going to make sure Nate Holton is prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. We need to put a bug in Judge Baker’s ear about not letting him off with that ‘time served’ bullshit again too.”

With his usual wolfish smile, Rhett tilted his head toward the end of the hallway. “Here he comes. Tell him yourself.”

Tom turned. Alton Baker strode toward them, his fat county-commission folder under his arm. “A word, Your Honor?”

Baker stopped, his eyes keen in his gaunt features. “Of course, Mr. McMillian.”

“You heard about Amanda Harrell?”

“I did.” Baker lifted his chin.

“If you’d followed the sentencing guidelines the last two times Nate Holton was in your courtroom, maybe she’d still be alive.”

Baker’s mouth tightened. “I hardly think how I run my court is any of your concern.”

“Somehow, I think your constituents would disagree.”

“Be careful, Mr. McMillian. Remember you have to stand before my bench on a regular basis.”

“Is that a threat, Your Honor?”

A feral smile spread over Baker’s mouth. “It’s whatever you want it to be, Mr. McMillian. Let’s just call it a friendly reminder. Good day, gentlemen.”

“The sheriff’s in the squad room. He said to go on back.”

Tom pushed aside the swinging half-door and strode down the hall until it opened into the department’s day room. He stopped short at the doorway. Sheriff Stanton Reed leaned against the counter running along one wall, a coffee mug cradled in one hand. With him was Jason Harding, sheriff of neighboring Haynes County.

Not to mention Kathleen’s new husband, father of the baby she carried.

Ignoring the burning tightness in his chest, Tom nodded at both men but focused on Reed. “Sheriff.”

“Hey, McMillian, take a look.” Reed waved his free hand at the small television taking up one corner of the counter. “Your girl made the news.”

His girl? What the hell? Tom advanced to stand beside Reed. The television displayed the midafternoon news break. On the screen, Celia, in her gray suit and with a small bandage on her chin, answered a blond reporter’s questions about their Baby Girl Doe.

Reed clapped him on the shoulder. “Gotta love that even though it’s our investigation, they’re interviewing your investigator.”

Tom shook his head as Celia offered a sincere smile and noncommittal answers as the reporter continued probing. “She’s not my anything. She merely works for my office.”

Merely. He ran a hand along his jaw. Who was he kidding? She was the best damn investigator he’d ever seen—cool, thorough, professional. She was a beautiful, intelligent woman. And as a lover…hot damn. He couldn’t begin to describe her.

He narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t enough. He wanted more than her body. All the interlude had done was whet his appetite. He wanted to separate the woman from the cop, to figure out who she really was. He wanted to know what caused the flashes of sadness he saw in her eyes sometimes, what lay at the end of that silver chain and why she so rarely took it off. He wanted to know why law enforcement and why his office. Above all, he wanted to know why some lucky guy hadn’t snapped her up a long time ago.

Oh hell, he was in deep shit.

“I’m trying my best to steal her away from you, McMillian.”

At Harding’s amused drawl, his head snapped up. He glared at the younger man, the one wearing Kathleen’s wide band on his finger. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Harding motioned between himself and Reed. “Actually we’re both trying to snag her to fill investigative openings. She’s not biting, though.”

Tom’s gaze drifted back to the television, but the story had shifted to the state lottery’s record-breaking worth. He relaxed his jaw. “Give it your best shot, Harding. I don’t own her.”

Instead of replying, Harding glanced at his watch. “Shoot, I’ve got to get moving. Kathleen’s appointment is in ten minutes. She’ll kill me if I’m late.”

Tom blew out a long breath and let Reed’s teasing rejoinder wash over him. He had to let go of all this damn resentment. He wanted Kathleen to be happy, didn’t he? Even if he’d always expected her to come back, to be happy with him.

“So what did you want, Counselor?” Reed lifted the coffee carafe and Tom waved the offer away. He’d made the mistake of accepting once.

“I was checking in on Nate Holton’s arrest status.” Tom briefly outlined his conversation with Alton Baker.

Reed grimaced. “Son of a bitch needs to do some time. It’s not like anything else has changed his behavior. His daddy’s not around anymore to bail him out and I can tell you his sister’s damn sure not going to.”

“Good.” Tom nodded. “Make sure I get a copy of the accident-reconstruction team’s report and Holton’s blood test results from the hospital.”

“Will do.”

Outside, Tom exchanged greetings with a couple of deputies entering the department. He paused at the foot of the steps, his gaze caught by a familiar flash of coppery hair. Down the street, Kathleen stood, her arm linked with Harding’s, gesturing as she talked to a brunette in a somber suit. As he watched, his ex-wife squeezed Harding’s arm and smiled up at him before laughing.

Tom wrapped a hand around the railing, his knuckles aching. He’d never made her smile like that, not even in the early days of their marriage. He swallowed. She was happy, happier than he’d ever seen her. She’d moved on, completely. Somehow, that left him free in a way he couldn’t quite understand.

He turned away, pulling his keys from his pocket. In his car, he tapped a thumb against the steering wheel as the air conditioner chilled the warm air around him. He needed to let go. With a harsh curse, he dragged a hand down his face, then reached for his cell.

“St. John.” Celia picked up on the third ring, her lush voice smoothing over him.

“Where are you?” He winced at the harshness of his own voice. Eyes closed, he rested his forehead on his fist, elbow on the door.

“We’re checking out Wesley Campbell’s story,” she said, her tone cool. In the background, Cook muttered something over the squawk of a police radio. “Hang on a second.”

He caught a snatch of her conversation with Cook as she asked him for a private moment and the investigator grumbled about being thrown out of his own damn car. A door closed with a thud.

“What did you want?” Celia asked.

“I want to see you later.”

“I think we established that earlier, McMillian.”

Call me Tom, damn it.
He swallowed the words. “Not like that. I meant have dinner with me again tonight.”

A pause vibrated between them. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”