Sound of Secrets (6 page)

Karen narrowed her green cat's eyes. She'd sensed his trap, he thought. "If Tyler's going to be there, I'll give that one a miss. But be sure to let me know when you'll be somewhere unescorted."

She walked away, exaggerating the sway of her hips, slanting him a last come-hither look over her shoulder.

Gray sank into the chair in front of his father’s computer. He shouldn’t even try to help Tyler Shaw in his crazy pursuit of Karen. He saw nothing ahead but heartache, and it wouldn’t be Karen who experienced it.

"Ty, old friend," he whispered, "you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into."

Gray picked up an issue of the Secret Sound Sun and leaned back in the adjustable office chair, opening the newspaper to his father's column on the second section front. He'd already read the column once, but the vision of a neighborhood community center for troubled teens was so close to his heart that he couldn’t resist rereading.

Gray and Tyler had come up with the idea over beer and pizza after Danny Peckenbush had been caught shoplifting.

Gray had theorized that Danny had been more interested in the thrill of the steal, and the alleviation of boredom, rather than the CD he’d stolen.That had led to a discussion of how few resources Secret Sound had in place for teens. From there, the dream of a clubhouse, flanked by outdoor basketball courts and staffed by adult volunteers, was born.

Secret Sound wasn't exactly filled with mean streets, but Gray knew from personal experience that idle hands made trouble. His own had made plenty and would have kept on making it if the man who had preceded him as the town’s police chief hadn’t taken an interest in him.

Gray and Tyler had already poured a good chunk of their own money into the project, but they needed much, much more. Today’s article was the second Gray’s father had written about the project. It mentioned that construction had already begun and several townspeople had stepped up with donations.

Gray couldn’t help smiling.

At the clacking of heels against linoleum, he lowered the newspaper and swiveled in the chair, expecting to see somebody he knew approaching. Instead he encountered the woman he'd caught screaming at nothing.

He inhaled sharply, his breath seizing in his throat and the smile dying on his lips. For a moment, his relief at seeing her again was so great that he couldn't do anything but stare.

She looked different than she had the other day. More desirable, if that were possible. Her hair was caught in a neat French braid, and her lightweight slacks and cotton shirt looked crisp. Chocolate-brown eyes a few shades darker than her hair shone with clarity, intelligence and no trace of the disorientation he had glimpsed the day before.

She returned his stare, her mouth slightly agape. Something stirred low in his belly, and he realized that it was desire. He had a powerful urge to crush that mouth to his and thrust his tongue inside those parted lips, but that was insane.

He had no intention of getting involved with any woman, least of all this one. Since Suzy had died, Gray had been even more careful not to get involved. He liked his life uncomplicated and this woman would be a hell of a complication. She kept looking at him as though she expected something. Had she lived, Suzy could have told her that Gray had absolutely nothing to give.

"Well, well, well. If it isn’t the bat woman," he drawled. "This is certainly a surprise."

She seemed to have a hard time finding her voice, but when she did she sounded composed. "Yes, it is a surprise."

An invisible current seemed to flow between them and bind them together. She must have felt it, too, because she took a step closer. Her head cocked. "Are you sure we haven't met before yesterday? This is my first time in Florida, but perhaps you've been to South Carolina?"

"South Carolina?" So that was the origin of her southern accent. He shook his head slowly. "Nope. Haven't been there. And believe me, if we'd met before yesterday, I'd remember. Yesterday was quite memorable in itself."

She abruptly broke eye contact, looked down at her feet, shuffled them. He half expected her to disappear again. But then she lifted her head and once more met his gaze head on. "You caught me at a bad moment. I don't usually scream like that."

He considered her from her neat French braid to the pretty pink nail polish she'd painted on toes that peeked out from her sensible sandals.

"I don't believe you do," he said finally and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankles. "Did you have any luck yesterday with your car?"

"It had a broken water pump, but it's fixed now," she stated flatly.

"Then why are you still here?"

"Pardon me?"

"Why are you still here?" he asked again. "I got the impression that you were passing through town."

"Then you got the wrong impression," she said, but he noticed her wipe her palms on the back of her slacks. "I have some business here."

His eyebrows rose. "Business? Here at the newspaper?"

"Yes."

He silently waited for her to elaborate.

"I'm here," she said at last, "to find Grayson DeBerg."

And so the mystery deepened, Gray thought.

"You found him," he said.

The magnetic pull the police chief seemed to have on Cara faded.

When he'd turned in his chair, she'd caught another full blast of deja vu. Although she hadn't expected to see him again, his face had been vividly imprinted on her mind. She looked into that face now, noting how his nearly black hair and eyebrows contrasted with the gray-blue of his eyes. Unlike the little boy who had vaporized into the air, he was solid and real.

He was also toying with her.

"You're not Grayson DeBerg."

"Sure I am." He leaned forward in his chair, dangling his hands between his legs. He wasn't wearing his cop's uniform today but a faded long-sleeved shirt and blue jeans that underlined his virility. "But you can call me Gray."

A nameplate was attached to the side of his cubicle. It said the impossible.

That didn't make sense. Gray DeBerg had written about Reginald Rhett III's death a quarter century ago, and this man couldn't be much older than she was. That would have made him five or six at the time of Reginald Rhett's death. Besides, he was the police chief.

"The Gray DeBerg I'm looking for is much older than you. He's been writing for the newspaper for..." Cara paused when she realized she didn't know exactly how long Gray DeBerg had been employed by the Secret Sound Sun. "...for years."

"Oh, you're looking for
that
Gray DeBerg." A gleam came into his eyes. For the second time in two days, Cara questioned her sanity. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"I did say so."

"No. You said you were looking for Gray DeBerg. Everyone around here except me calls him Bergie."

"Bergie?" Another jolt of surprise overtook her. "As in the columnist who writes the 'Bergie's Sound’ column? The one about people doing good deeds for each other?"

"That's the one. He's quite the do-gooder," Gray said without any hint of mockery in his voice. Instead, Cara heard pride. "He also writes about people who need help, people and agencies that do help and projects and programs that should get help. Only one of his columns is nationally syndicated. The rest of the time, he writes about local issues."

"Wait a minute. If you don't call him Bergie, what do you call him?" Cara asked, already knowing the answer.

"Dad."

Cara pressed her lips together. Her situation was growing more complicated. It would have been better had Bergie been childless rather than the father of the one man who had seen her at her most irrational moment.

"Is your father here in the office?" She ignored the fact that he'd been having some fun with her. He must have known she'd been seeking the elder DeBerg.

"He'll show up eventually, although with Dad you never can tell exactly when. Punctuality is not one of his virtues."

 
"I need to talk to him."

 
"Why don't you tell me who you are first?" When she didn't immediately answer, he continued, "Or should I just make up a name for you?"

"It's Carissa Donnelly." She paid careful attention to see if her name seemed familiar to him. Not a flicker of recognition passed his face. "Everybody calls me Cara."

"So Cara," he said, and the name rolled off his tongue like a tiger’s purr, "why do you want to talk to my father?"

"I have some business he can help me with."

"What kind of business?"

Cara's instincts told her to trust him, but she'd been wrong about him before. She erected an invisible barricade. "Haven’t you ever heard of tact?"
 

A corner of his mouth lifted in what could have passed for a smile.

"What's funny?" she demanded.

"I just asked someone the same thing. I'll answer the same way he did. I've never had much use for it. It gets in the way when I’m doing my job."

She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she thought up another retort. If she could stand up to Sam Peckenbush’s angry pit bull, she could stand up to Gray, too. "Just because you're the police chief doesn't mean I have to answer every question you ask me."

"I'm not asking as a police chief. I'm asking as a son. Whatever concerns my father, concerns me."

 
"Does he know this?" Cara made her voice testy even though she admired his stance. She'd spent years caring for her own ailing parents, years believing their problems were her own.

"It doesn't matter if he knows it or not. It's the truth." His gaze met hers, and Cara couldn't look away. For a moment, she couldn't even breath. "Now why do you want to talk to him?"

A booming voice that carried from halfway across the office nearly obliterated Gray's question, breaking the strange spell. She turned and saw a tall, heavyset man walking slowly toward them.

"Gray, my son. I hope I haven't kept you waiting long." He had an abundance of snow-white hair and tinted glasses that partially obscured his face. He was wearing dark pants in a stretchy material that paid more attention to comfort than fashion. Over his long-sleeved white dress shirt was an eye-catching sterling silver bolo tie imprinted with a turquoise stone in a starburst setting. "I know I'm late again, but I got to talkin' to Mamie over at the tackle shop, and I lost track of the time."

He didn't acknowledge Cara until he was a few steps away. His leathery face had been abused by the sun, but when he smiled she saw the resemblance between father and son in the squareness of his jaw and the even whiteness of his teeth. Cara judged him to be in his early seventies.

"Well, well, well. What have we here? I haven't seen you around before. Please tell me you're with Gray. I have this hankering for grandchildren, but I won't get any if this son of mine doesn't get married again soon."

Married again? Not once since they’d met had it occurred to Cara that Gray could be married. Now she wanted to know everything about him, including what had happened to his wife. She forced herself to remain silent. Gray DeBerg already thought she asked too many questions.

"Your hankering for grandchildren is not a good enough reason for me to get married," Gray said dryly. "And the lady is not with me."

"Is it because he’s a police chief?" Bergie asked, disappointment clearly stamped on his face. "Because, I've got to tell you, police work isn't as dangerous here in Secret Sound as it is in other cities. Sure, we have crime, but I can't remember the last time we had a shootout."

"Dad..."

"Mr. DeBerg, I barely know your son," Cara interrupted. "My name is Cara Donnelly, and I’m here to see you."

"Me?" Bergie pointed to his barrel chest. "If you're here to see me, you must have a problem. That's why people come to me. Problems. They all have problems. And they all need help."

"Actually, I don't need help." Cara slanted a look at Gray. If only he'd go away so she could speak freely. "What I need is information."
"Information?" Bergie covered what looked like momentary puzzlement with a grin that crinkled his eyes and the deep, well-used creases around his mouth. "You've come to the right place for that. Information is my business. But I'm not discussing anything on an empty stomach. If I don’t get some dinner in me soon, I'm going to raid the vending machine and wreck my diet. Your name's Cara, right. Well, Cara, join us."

She hesitated. Although she wanted an audience with Bergie, she didn't need his too-suspicious son listening in. "That's very kind of you, Mr. DeBerg, but I wouldn't want to intrude."

"First of all, call me Bergie. Secondly, it's nonsense to think you'd be intruding. The more the merrier is my motto."

"Then I'd very much like to have dinner with you." She slanted a skeptical look at Gray. "That is, if your son doesn't mind."

"Of course he doesn't mind," Bergie said. "Gray’s as susceptible to a pretty woman as the rest of us. Isn't that right, son?"

"It’s fine by me if she comes to dinner with us," Gray said. She noticed he'd deftly sidestepped his father's question.

"That's settled then." Bergie held out an arm to Cara. "C'mon, Cara. Take me away from my desk before I eat that candy bar I have tucked away in the upper drawer."

Bergie’s stomach grumbled as he followed the ponytailed, fair-haired waitress through the restaurant to a table on a wooden patio that hugged the intracoastal waterway.

He settled heavily into one of the high-backed wooden chairs, his spirits buoyed by the feel of the salt-flavored wind rustling his hair and the sight of his son holding out a chair for the pretty young stranger.

He hadn’t been joking about the grandchildren. He didn’t have much living left, not when the short walk from the parking lot to the restaurant winded him. Besides, he was already seventy-three, way past the age when most men had the satisfaction of seeing their genes passed down to the next generation.

He’d about given up on Gray succumbing to the charms of any of the women in Secret Sound. However, he could tell his son was interested in this Cara Donnelly. Gray shut up tighter than a clamshell when something was bothering him. For the sake of his continued lineage, Bergie hoped that something was Cara.