Authors: Sarah Grimm
She should have followed her parents’ lead. She would have made a damn good lawyer.
For that matter, she would have made a damn good cop. Chin high, shoulders squared
and looking as if it hadn’t cost her a thing, Paige had just answered every question
he’d thrown at her moments ago.
In the order he’d put them to her.
“Do you have any more questions, or are we done?”
Justin frowned. In the space of a heartbeat the tough façade faded, replaced by the
same vulnerability he’d glimpsed on his arrival. Before his very eyes she withdrew,
closed in on herself. No matter how strong he believed her to be, she’d reached her
limit. She wanted him gone.
He could tell himself that he didn’t want to get involved, that he’d only showed up
on her doorstep to glean some answers. His reluctance to leave told him something
altogether different.
Without considering the why or giving his head time to list all the reasons he shouldn’t,
Justin crossed the room to a framed example of her work.
Portraits, he discovered as he moved about, she did portraits. But not your standard,
run-of-the-mill headshots. No, her work could not be considered traditional. If he
were to hazard a guess, he figured her goal was to get the observer to look past the
obvious, to forget preconceived notions and see the true person that lay beneath.
Yet in each case, the way she went about it differed. The end result—photographs as
unique and individual as their subject. Some fun, some adventurous, and others oddly
sensual.
Justin compared each new photograph to the one he’d studied first—the woman he’d discovered
upon the proof sheet. Although he liked all of her work, saw the skill and beauty
in each piece that hung in her studio, the woman with the tattoo remained his favorite.
With its stark black-and-white contrasts and unique sensuality, he knew he wouldn’t
forget it easily.
Just as he couldn’t forget the photographer easily.
Turning from the photograph before him, he crossed an expanse of oak flooring to the
desk tucked against the wall. Another photograph hung centered behind the desk, this
one color instead of her preferred black and white. The subject brought a smile to
his face. “1959 Cadillac El Dorado.”
She’d taken the photograph in what he could only describe as old-style, not showcasing
the entire car, but its unique features. The rear quarter panel and chrome accents
of the cotton-candy pink Cadillac sparkled, but it was the red, conical taillights
that drew and held his attention. “I like this one.”
When she didn’t respond, he turned. “Ms. Conroy?”
She stood still as stone, watching him in a way that made his body warm. “Paige,”
she corrected automatically. With slow precision, she raised her gaze to meet his.
“What did you say?”
Justin pushed away from the desk and walked toward her. “The Cadillac. Didn’t I see
that car parked in front of your building?”
“You noticed that, did you?”
“I tend to pay particular attention to things of beauty.”
His words darkened her eyes to emerald. Color flashed across her cheeks.
Halting inches from her, he allowed his gaze to slide slowly from her head to her
toes and back again. His fingers itched to touch her. Stifling the thought, he shoved
his hands into his pockets. “Is it yours?”
“The photograph? Yes, it’s one of my first, before I decided that portraits were more
my style.”
“I meant the Caddy.”
“Right, the Caddy,” she replied, a huskiness to her voice that hadn’t been there before.
“Yes, the Cadillac is mine.”
He tipped his head. “Does your appreciation extend to all classic cars or just Cadillacs?”
The beginnings of a smile tipped the corners of her incredible mouth. “I love all
the classics. What about you, what do you drive?”
“1969 Pontiac GTO.”
“A goat,” she said, using the nickname for the GTO. Her eyes narrowed. “Not a judge?”
“Yes.”
“Stock or custom?”
“Stock. 400-cubic-inch Ram air V-8—”
“With a Quadra-jet carb.”
Justin was impressed. This was a layer to Paige Conroy he hadn’t expected. One of
many he’d uncovered tonight. “You know your cars.”
“I told you, I love the classics. Your goat, is it the standard package?”
He shook his head. “Ram Air IV, four-speed manual transmission.”
Without conscious thought, Justin reached out and swept up a lock of hair that lay
across her arm. She smelled like roses, he realized, as the gossamer soft strands
curled around his fingers. He’d always liked the smell of roses. “I brought her here,
if you’d like to see her.”
“I’d like that.”
Justin crossed to the door, held it for her as she stepped out onto the sidewalk.
He smiled at the sight of her Cadillac sitting at the curb, its top down in deference
to the humid night air, before shifting his gaze to his own car, parked a few feet
in front of hers and shining in the light from the street lamp.
Her lips parted as a startled gasp slipped free. Feet still bare, she walked to his
car and slowly, one finger at a time, pressed down until her palm lay flat atop the
front quarter panel. Even from his distance, he caught her tiny shiver of pleasure.
“She’s beautiful.”
Justin watched, transfixed, as she moved around his car, each step forward followed
by the gentle slide of her hand across the quarter panel. Down the side, across the
rear spoiler and forward once more. Each stroke, each caress of her hand pushed his
blood pressure up another notch until he had to steel himself from closing the distance
and pulling her into his embrace.
Want consumed him. He wanted her hands on him, not just on his car. He wanted to taste
her, feel her, to fist his hands in her hair and sink into her warmth. It’d been too
long, far too long since he’d been with a woman—six months, ten days and twenty-two
hours to be exact, and he missed it. He missed it more than he missed nicotine, more
than he missed being able to draw a deep breath without the slightest twinge of pain.
She looked up and met his gaze across the expanse of the car. A smile curved her lips,
brightened her face and lightened her features. Joy, pure, unadulterated joy sparkled
in her eyes, warmed her voice. “How long have you had her?”
“About ten years now. I found her in a field behind someone’s house with four flat
tires and mold covering the front seat.”
Disgust colored her features but her smile did not fade. Justin caught himself before
he could return her smile. He shoved his hands into his front pockets.
It’d been a mistake coming here, a mistake he needed to quickly remedy. For years
he’d chosen his women for their physical endowments and little else. He liked them
blonde and stacked, girls who didn’t expect more from him than a night of pleasure
and tempted him in no other sense than the physical. Only since he’d faced down a
bullet and lost, he hadn’t been able to even consider enjoying a woman with the same
carelessness as before.
This attraction, this connection he felt with the woman before him, was dangerous.
With so much at stake, so much riding on him doing his job and doing it right, he
couldn’t afford to slip up. He couldn’t risk another distraction. He had enough of
those already, the pain in his side the largest one.
He drew in a deep breath, expanding his lungs, welcoming the accompanying ache as
the slap of reality he so desperately needed. He had work to do, a murder to solve.
He straightened and pulled his keys from his pocket, then shattered the intimacy by
reminding them both of his reason for being there. “If I need anything else from you,
I’ll be in touch.”
She blinked once. Twice. All the color drained from her face.
He hadn’t meant to cause her grief, but he watched it wash over her. Guilt settled
in, nearly choking him. He tightened his jaw and pushed it away. He couldn’t get involved.
He couldn’t allow himself to care.
So he left her, standing beneath the streetlight, arms curled around her stomach.
He called himself the worst kind of fool and cursed long and loud. And when he would
have looked back, checked to see if she remained there, alone on that empty street,
he turned a corner and accelerated, working through the gears with long-practiced
ease.
Paige awoke with a start, the echo of her scream ringing in her ears. She sat up in
bed and clutched the sheet to her chest. The smooth gleam of perspiration covered
her skin. She shivered once in the moonlit room and pushed hair out of her face with
fingers numb with cold.
It’s only a dream
, she assured herself, but the knowledge did little to slow her racing heart.
Death and dying.
Love and loss.
Images much too realistic taunted her shattered nerves.
Blood, so much blood.
She pushed her hand into her abdomen and doubled over, working the air in and out
of her lungs. Her chest burned as if squeezed by a vise. Acid inched up the back of
her throat.
“Breathe.” She shifted to her knees, kicking frantically when the sheet snagged on
her legs. “Just breathe.”
Her breath came in ragged little gasps as she worked for composure. Her eyes swept
the room about her, waiting, struggling with the reality that she was awake. It had
only been a dream.
Only it was more than just that, more than a nightmare. It was a memory.
“Why,” she moaned, her hands fisting the lace coverlet. “Why couldn’t you have stayed
buried in the past?”
The answer came swift and vivid. Since she’d stumbled on Leroy’s blood-covered body
just twenty four hours before, thoughts of her past refused to fade into the background.
Endless hours of restless sleep and more stress than any person should have to endure
only made it more impossible to fight. Brick by brick, the wall she’d built around
her memories began to crumble.
She closed her eyes and tried to push past the horror, past the memories struggling
to break through, but they slammed into her with the force of a one-two punch. With
no more strength to resist, her mind slipped into the past.
Rick. With little effort, she could envision him standing before her—his pale hair
and eyes, his ruthless good looks. Young and foolish when she’d met him, he was the
first man to ever cause her stomach to drop to her toes and her system to go jittery.
Cocky, arrogant and quick to charm, he’d walked into her life and swept her off her
feet. She’d allowed herself to be carried away by attraction and she’d fallen hard
and fast.
It had nearly been her undoing.
By the time she realized she would never be able to compete with his job, she’d loved
him completely. She withstood his sudden changes in mood and convinced herself that
when he shut himself off to her, retreating behind a mask of cool indifference, it
was nothing personal. She got good at accepting what little he gave her, even as she
craved more. Good enough that his swift, brutal death nearly destroyed her.
Even though his life had brought her little more than frustration and pain.
“Never again,” she whispered. “No more cops.” Her breathing regulated, her stomach
settled.
Until dark brown eyes flashed into her mind.
Stifling a groan, she scrubbed her palms across her face. She closed her eyes and
waited for Sergeant Harrison’s image to fade. When it remained wedged in place, Paige
fumbled out from beneath her covers and staggered to her bathroom where she splashed
cold water onto her face.
Because she could feel hot tears boiling up, she splashed her face a second time.
It was nothing more than the need to reach out to someone. To feel the warmth of a
man’s arms around her, the soothing comfort of his voice in her ear. She was lonely,
confused, and once again, she had all but witnessed a violent murder. Because she
was too shaken to maintain tight control of her thoughts, her mind drifted again to
Sergeant Harrison. He’d been the last person she’d seen before finally catching some
sleep. It didn’t have to mean anything more than that.
But she knew it did. For the first time in years, she ached for a man. A man with
dark hair and eyes so unlike the blue she usually went for. A man with gentle hands,
an inquisitive mind, and a gold shield upon his belt.
The realization brought Paige up short. She thought she’d changed, had gone out of
her way to discard any and all representation of the woman she had been before Rick
died. She’d grown stronger, more self-reliant. She refused to remain the same pathetic,
hollow person who would allow others to choose her moods, her very thoughts.
Suddenly looking for affirmation, her gaze settled upon her reflection. She winced,
not comforted by what she found.
Focused on the hollow cheeks and pale hue of the woman reflected back at her, Paige
wondered just how much she
had
changed. She knew all too well how it felt to follow her heart and not her head. The
mind-numbing ache of betrayal, that never completely went away. She had no desire
to repeat her past, to experience that kind of pain again. So why did she fear she
was doing just that—falling for a man she knew to be the epitome of everything she’d
vowed to change about her life?
Sure, through the brief glimpses caught of the man behind the badge, she thought there
might be something to Sergeant Harrison that she could care about. But twice now,
immediately after showing pieces of himself, he’d closed off swiftly and completely.
She’d been down that road before, knew the heartache of it. She wouldn’t go down there
again. For that reason, there was no room in her life for Sergeant Harrison. No room
for him in her thoughts.
Paige exhaled slowly and reached for her toothbrush, avoiding her reflection. If she
were to look just then, she just might catch a glimpse of regret in the pale, exhausted
face that stared back at her, and that just wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.
* * * * *
Two hours and a half-pot of coffee later, Paige pulled her favorite black pantsuit
from her large, walk-in closet. She dropped her bathrobe to the floor, pulled the
pants up her legs and fastened them. She slipped into a black, tank-style camisole,
followed by the snug, fitted blazer. She glanced in the mirror.
Immediately her mood improved. She appeared
professional, together, just as she preferred to, as she needed to on a day like today,
when she felt anything but together. The cool, collected exterior was a ruse, but
a necessary one. She couldn’t conduct business, convince people of her ability to
get the job done, if they thought the slightest breeze would blow her over. She couldn’t
meet Lucinda Amelia Perenna presenting
anything but her best.
Today was an important day for her, important enough to command the façade. Finally,
after years of struggle, her work was receiving the recognition it deserved. Word
of her talent, her ability to find and then showcase the unique individual within,
had spread. It wouldn’t be long now and she would have the success she strove for.
She knew this, for last week she’d received the one phone call that would make it
happen for her.
Enter Lucinda Amelia Perenna, an immigrant who married well and grew to become one
of the most influential women in San Diego. Recently widowed, she’d taken over her
husband’s money and used it to speak out against racial prejudice. Ms. Perenna had
power and spent her life in the public eye. She had connections, knew all the right
people…
And she’d called
Conroy Photography
to commission her self-portrait.
It continued to addle Paige’s mind. Her, Ms. Perenna had contacted her! This was her
chance. The chance she’d been working for, the chance to prove herself. For if—no
when
, she corrected—when she completed this assignment, delivering to Ms. Perenna a finished
product both women could be proud of, she would know true success. Her name would
make its way into the upper echelons of San Diego society and her business would grow.
She smiled as she slipped into a pair of black pumps. She’d dreamed of this moment
for so long…since that day so many years ago when she’d first peered through a camera
viewfinder and discovered why she saw the world so differently from the other girls
her age. She’d fought self-doubt, ignored the criticism of those who set out to defeat
her, for this very moment. This was the beginning of many wonderful things to come.
A smile on her face, heels clicking across the hardwood floor, Paige made her way
to the stairs and down to her studio. Anticipation filled her as she crossed to her
darkroom—the place she’d sought refuge in after Sergeant Harrison’s departure the
night before. Sleep evaded her and so she’d done the only thing she knew would relax
her—she’d worked. Her worries forgotten amidst the task before her, she’d worked long
into the night without pause. Now, she would view her end result.
Several eight-by-tens hung from the drying line, but even from this distance, Paige
easily identified her favorite. The nude of the woman with her back to the camera
was her best work yet. It captured both the woman’s disposition, turned away from
the world about her, and the woman’s beauty. The former was obvious upon first meeting
Gabrielle Sumner. She’d grown up on the street, struggling to show the world she was
more, then quickly building barriers against those unable to see past her circumstances.
The latter, Paige knew her client would not expect to see.
Gently, still weighing each photograph’s strengths and weaknesses, she removed them
from the drying line. She stacked her favorites and carried them with her out into
the studio in search of her briefcase. Along the way, she also collected her cell
phone, proof sheets and a notepad. She shoved all but the phone into her briefcase,
grabbed her car keys and headed for the door.
She was already in her car, sunglasses perched atop her nose and engine idling, before
she realized she hadn’t activated her building’s alarm system. Digging the keys to
the studio out of the depths of her briefcase, she aimed the wireless remote at the
front of her building and pressed the arm button.
Then she saw it. Confusion wrinkled her brow. Her hand crept to her throat while she
waited for her mind to process what was taped to her door. From her distance, she
couldn’t say for certain, but it looked an awful lot like a photograph.
She slid out of the car and skirted the hood. It did little good to assure herself
that her eyes were just playing tricks on her. Fear settled in even as her legs propelled
her closer and closer to the door. Her heart made a beeline for her throat. Her vision
blurred. “It can’t be,” she said aloud.
She never got the chance to find out.
The explosion came out of nowhere, disturbing the quiet of the morning. Paige flew
through the air like a rag doll and bounced off the unforgiving bricks of her building.
Pain burst through her body, drove the oxygen from her lungs. She struggled to regain
her breath, to pull the thick, hot air into her starving lungs. Glass rained down
upon her, hitting her legs, her stomach. Something large and hot crashed into her
face, just above her left eye. Her vision doubled, tripled.
Her world spun in circles, then went dark.