TRACE EVIDENCE (21 page)

She was too good to be true, he thought as he began to eat the meal she'd prepared. She was too centered, too generous, too easy-going and at peace with herself. He wasn't sure why, but something in his current mood made him want to pick a fight with her, see her peaceful tranquility shatter.

Instead he focused on the meal, knowing that the frustration he felt, the need to lash out at something or someone had nothing to do with her, but rather the feeling of inadequacy that gnawed at him concerning his work.

Still, the delicious meal did nothing to staunch the roiling emotions that threatened to explode inside him. The moment he finished eating, she reached for his plate but he stopped her by grabbing her wrist. "You aren't my maid, Tamara. I can put my own plate in the dishwasher."

Her eyes were huge as she gazed at him. "Okay," she said and pulled her wrist from his grip. She remained standing as if uncertain what to do next. "I'll just let you finish up here then." She picked up her sketch pad and pencils and left the kitchen.

A mixture of emotions sliced through him as he rinsed his plate and put it in the dishwasher, emotions he couldn't begin to name or even identify.

Maybe it was just a combination of exhaustion and frustration, and perhaps a bit of sexual want for the woman he shouldn't want.

He went into the living room where she was seated on one of the chairs. The television played softly, tuned to a popular sitcom. He sat in the other chair, staring unseeing at the television screen, too aware of her so close to him.

Closing his eyes, he rubbed his forehead in an attempt to dispel the visions of death that he'd viewed all day long. Greg Maxwell. Sam McClane. Tim O'Brien. He'd spent much of his day looking at the crime-scene photos, seeing those men naked and vulnerable in death.

"Clay? Are you all right? Do you have a headache?"

Her voice, so soft and solicitous both soothed and irritated at the same time. He dropped his hand from his forehead and looked at her. "No, I don't have a headache and no, I'm not all right."

"What's wrong?" Those beautiful gray eyes of hers were filled with concern. "What can I do to help?"

Her question made his irrational irritation rise to new heights. "What can you do to help?" He slid his gaze over her, pointedly lingering on the thrust of her breasts before returning to look her in the eyes. "You could take my mind off all my problems by going to bed with me."

She stood from her chair. "All right."

He stared at her in astonishment. "You'd do that? You'd let me use you like that?"

She smiled, a challenging grin that twinkled in her eyes. "What makes you think you'd be using me? Maybe I'd be using you."

A sharp burst of laughter flew from his lips. The laughter was unexpected and somehow tension relieving. "And just why would you want to use me by rolling around beneath the sheets with me?"

She shrugged. "Oh, I don't know … maybe because the television program that's playing now is a rerun and I'm going stir-crazy stuck in this house alone everyday and at least a roll between the sheets with you would maybe break the monotony somewhat."

She was calling his bluff and he knew it. And she knew that he knew it. "You might as well sit back down. I refuse to be used by a woman who only wants my body."

"You don't offer much else," she returned, still standing before him. "You don't share your thoughts, your feelings or anything else."

He frowned. "You don't want to hear my thoughts or know my feelings. They aren't worth sharing."

She kneeled down at his feet and placed her hands on his knees. Her gaze held his and he wanted to fall into the clear gray depths and stay there forever. "Clay, I know you don't like to talk about the sensitive matters of your ongoing cases. But I just want you to know that I'm here if you do want to talk about them … or anything else. I would consider anything you tell me a confidence, and I never break confidences."

She didn't need to tell him that. He trusted her implicitly. He reached out and stroked the length of her long, silky hair. She lay her head on his knees, as if to make it easier for him to run his fingers through the strands of hair.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, his fingers caressing as his body unwound from the taut knot it had been in for the past three days. One of her hands rubbed his knee, not in any sexual way, but rather in a soothing, soft rhythm.

"I'm afraid everyone has forgotten." As the words fell from his lips he raised his head and once again looked at her.

"Forgotten?"

"My mother." He frowned, a new knot forming in the center of his chest. "These murders that are taking place are terrible and I don't mean to take away from the importance of finding the person responsible and stopping them. But all the force is focused on that and everyone has stopped looking for Mom."

She grimaced and he realized he'd grabbed a handful of her hair too tightly. "I'm sorry," he said and quickly released his hold.

"It's all right." She propped her hands beneath her chin, her eyes filled with empathy. In that empathic look, his lips found words that had been aching inside him.

"I know it sounds crazy, but I'm so angry that these murders are happening now, that they take precedence over my missing mother. And when that anger comes upon me, it makes me feel childish. I mean, men are dying and all I want to do is get enough time to look at everything pertaining to my mother's case and solve it."

"I'm certainly no forensic scientist, but if there's anything I can do to help, just tell me," she offered.

He looked at her for a long moment, then indicated he wanted to get up. He stood, then took her hand and pulled her to her feet. "Let me show you something."

He walked over to his worktable and opened a drawer where he kept slides. He was intensely conscious of her nearness as he put the one he wanted under the microscopic eye. He focused it, then gestured for her to look at it. "Tell me what you see."

She lowered her head to peer into the eyepiece, then looked back at him with a frown. "They look like threads of some kind … blue threads."

He nodded. "They're a seventy-five percent polyester and twenty-five percent cotton blend."

"Where did you get them?"

"I found them stuck in the striker plate on the bedroom doorframe at my parents' house." He swiped a hand through his hair, exhausted, yet needing to talk about where he was on the case, talk about it to somebody who cared. "The problem is I don't know when they were left there or what they came from. I don't know it they're a clue or a piece of fluff that means nothing."

"But at this point you can't dismiss anything, no matter how minute it might appear," she said.

"That's right."

She looked into the eyepiece again. "Did your mother have a dress that color? A blouse or something?"

"I don't think so." He'd thought about it over and over again since the moment he'd first seen those threads. "Mom didn't wear much blue, although she wore a lot of turquoise. I can't think of anything either her or Dad wore that would have caught on the striker plate and left those threads."

"Could it be from whoever came into your house that night and took your mother?" she asked.

"Could be … and maybe not." A new burst of frustration sliced through him. "At the moment it's all I've got … these blue threads and a handful of rocks."

"A handful of rocks?"

He told her about the Dalmatian blend of rocks that he had found both at the Frazier murder scene and in his mother and father's carpeting. "I've got copies of invoices from quarries and landscaping services around the state and I haven't even had a chance to go over them to see who might possibly be put on a suspect list."

"Do you have the invoices here? Clay, that's something I could do for you. I have hours here each day. At least I could help with this."

He hesitated only a moment, then reached back into the drawer and drew out a thick manila folder. "This is everything we have on the case. The invoices are in here, along with pictures, interviews and everything else. But you know you don't have to do this."

"I know." She smiled, her eyes holding a touch of sadness. "I miss her, too, Clay. Your mother welcomed me into the cultural center with open arms when I returned here from
New York
. With her friendship, her spirituality and her passion, she brought me back to who I needed to be."

Clay realized at that moment that he'd needed to talk about his mother. He'd needed to hear somebody say good things about her, to know what a special person she was.

He stared down at the stainless steel worktable. "You know, the last time I saw her I fought with her." The words squeezed out of him with a shaft of pain and unmitigated guilt. He turned his back to Tamara, the guilt ripping him up. "I said some rotten things to her and the last look I saw on her face was pain and disappointment and it was all because of me."

"Clay." Tamara touched his arm, but he didn't turn around. With a surprising strength, she grabbed his shoulder and forced him to turn and face her.

When he looked at her, her eyes swam with a mist of tears. She placed her cool, soft hands on either side of his face. "You listen to me, Clay James. I don't know what you and your mother fought about and it doesn't really matter. Your mother talked about you every day that I saw her. She spoke of you with pride and love and nothing you could have said to her, nothing you could have fought about would have changed the fierce love she felt for you, the deep pride that burned in her heart for you."

God, he'd needed to hear these words from somebody … anybody. Her words soothed the jagged edges that had existed in his heart since the moment of his mother's disappearance. He leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. "Thank you," he said softly.

"Don't thank me. I didn't do anything but tell you the truth," she replied. "And you need to get some sleep. You've pushed yourself too hard in the last couple of days."

He raised his forehead from hers and looked at her intently. "Sleep with me, Tamara. I'm not asking for anything else. Just sleep with me tonight." He wanted her closeness, her warmth against him. Tonight he needed her beside him more than he'd ever needed anyone in his life.

* * *

Tamara knew when she agreed to sleep with him, that in all probability sleep would become something much more. It didn't matter that he was the wrong man for her, it didn't matter that there was no possible future between them. What mattered was the raw emotion that emanated from him, the need she saw in his eyes.

She was surprised when moments later they got into his bed and he pulled her into a warm embrace against him and promptly fell asleep.

She remained still, enjoying the feel of his strong arms around her, his toasty warm body with its masculine curvature against her back. At the same time she worried about him. What if they didn't ever find Rita?

She knew from their conversation earlier that it wasn't just grief that tore at his thoughts, but rather the burden of guilt as well. She had no idea what dynamics had been at play between mother and son, but she'd told him the truth about Rita's love and devotion to him, and his was obvious for her as well.

She didn't realize she'd drifted off to sleep until she came awake. She knew instinctively that she hadn't been sleeping very long and it took her only a moment to realize what had awakened her.

His hand cupped her breast and his lips nibbled on the back of her neck. "I thought I could do this," his voice whispered softly in her ear. "I thought I could have you here in my bed, sleeping next to me and not want you, but I was wrong."

Her heart kicked into a frantic beat as his fingers raked over the taut tip of her nipple. Even through the silk of her nightgown she could feel the heat of his hand, heat that beckoned her to burn with him.

She turned over to face him, his features barely discernable in the moonlight that seeped in through the window. "You should sleep. You need your rest."

She could see the smile that curved his lips as his hand once again swept over her throat, down her collarbones and over her breasts. "Is that a nice way of saying no?"

With his hands teasing her and that sexy smile riding his lips, the word "no" was no longer in her vocabulary. She ran her fingers across his broad chest. "Does this feel like no?" She leaned forward and kissed his neck, lingering in the dark hollow of his throat. "Or this?"

She had no opportunity to say another word. His mouth crashed to hers, her senses reeling, her breath half-stolen by the passionate ferocity of his kiss.

Within moments her nightgown was tossed to the floor, as well as his boxers, and their naked bodies met in a frenzy of tangled flesh and beating hearts.

What had been his need became her own … the need to be joined with him, to meld into one. His tongue battled with hers as he stroked her naked flesh, creating a river of want splashing inside her.

Her hands were not idle. She loved the feel of his muscled chest and shoulders as well as his taut abdomen. The masculine scent of his cologne had become achingly familiar to her and swept her higher into the throes of desire.

Where before when they had made love it seemed as if they had indulged in foreplay for an eternity, this time they grappled each other hungrily, seeking union without the need for foreplay.