Devil in the Deadline Page 11

  “So?”

  “There was cow’s blood. At the murder scene.”

  “What? Why?”

  I shrugged a how-the-hell-should-I-know.

  He drummed his fingers across his thigh. “No other people in Virginia raise cattle?”

  “No other churches. That I could find, anyway.”

  “So you thought you’d go to church and find a ‘have you seen this girl?’ ad in the Sunday Bulletin?”

  No, I thought the funky symbol they own the rights to being all over her diary was weird. Still not sharing that, though.

  “I went to get a feel for the place. Which Kyle thought was off, too. And I didn’t go alone.” I rolled the last bit around my head for a few beats before I said it, knowing Joey didn’t like the idea of me doing much of anything with Kyle. But maybe if I could show him I was playing it safe (safer, anyhow), he’d tell me why he knew anything at all about Golightly. Which I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to know.

  And there was the central problem with our crazy relationship: he was sexy as hell, and so sweet to me. But there was this whole other part of his life I knew very little about. By choice, really. It had been a year. I could’ve dug up a dossier on him. But part of me didn’t want to violate his privacy, and the other part was terrified of what I might find.

  “I appreciate that.” Joey’s tight smile said he wasn’t sure he did. “But that was the dumbest thing you could have done. Don’t you remember Waco?”

  “Does anyone know any other case file? Unless the reverend is stockpiling guns, Kyle’s guys have no bone to pick with him.”

  Joey flinched, but kept quiet.

  Holy shit.

  I studied his face, which he tried to keep stony and blank.

  “They’re stockpiling guns?”

  “No comment.”

  Translation: maybe.

  My thoughts ran to other reasons Golightly might not want the ATF in his cheap seats. I needed a pen for that list. “Whatever. If they don’t want Kyle around, there’s something fishy going on. Something no other reporter in the state has a lead on.”

  “Why do I bother?” he huffed.

  I smiled. His cryptic routine irritated me, but his heart was in the right place. As was his everything else.

  “I appreciate the concern,” I said, softening my voice and my face. “But this murder is a big deal. And the air around Golightly’s place thrums with shady vibes. I’ll be careful. Kyle is interested in this, too.”

  “I’m not sure how to take that.”

  “I wish I knew what to tell you. He’s an old friend.” Every word true.

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and studied my face like it held the key to a dead language. I smiled. Sort of. It was hard to avoid squirming under that gaze.

  He finally smiled. “Whatever I’m doing here, steering clear doesn’t appear to be an option. So I suppose I’ll do my best to keep you safe.”

  “Starting tonight?” Did I really say that? It sounded like my voice.

  That magical smell. I could still breathe it with him leaning in like that. Better than a drug, hand to God.

  He grinned. “I have no other plans.”

  “Want to hang out a while? Watch a movie? Have some dinner?”

  “I’d like that.”

  Me, too.

  Joey knew the characters’ names in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, which I found way more charming than I probably should have. By the time Paul proposed, Joey had leaned back into the corner of the sofa and wrapped an arm around me. My head fit perfectly into the curve of his shoulder. The credits rolled before I knew it, and he squeezed me for a long second. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Utter. Magic.

  He cleared his throat. “That was fun.”

  I nodded. Happy. Normal. Date-like, even. “Dinner?” I asked.

  He followed me to the kitchen, and I wondered how we could be not speaking one day and so cozy the next as I pulled the ingredients for pasta pomodoro from my pantry and fridge. Joey found a bottle of summer red in my wine rack and opened it, pouring two glasses and setting one on the counter for me.

  “What can I do?” he asked, laying his cufflinks on the yellow tiled countertop and rolling his sleeves up a bit.

  I peeked at him through my lashes as I ran water into a stockpot. He fit so easily into my kitchen. Into my life. It was hard to be annoyed with his disappearing act when I had a feeling I understood his reasoning. Not that I agreed with it. But I got it.

  I pointed him to the cutting board and a pile of vegetables. “You want to chop those?”

  “Sure.” He slid the board onto the counter next to the sink and picked up a tomato and a serrated knife like he made dinner here every night. “How do you want them cut?”

  “Just diced. Not huge.” I shut off the water and put the pot on the back burner, then pulled out a skillet and sprayed it with olive oil.

  Eleven kinds of awkward silence ensued. I sipped my wine.

  “So, how have you been?” I asked.

  He cut his dark eyes to me and grinned. “Frustrated. You?”

  “About the same.”

  He nodded slowly. “This is so…”

  “Complicated?”

  “I was shooting more for ‘impossible.’ But complicated works.”

  I sighed and took the cutting board from him, pushing the veggies into the hot skillet with a wooden spoon and stirring. “Why can’t things be easy?” I wasn’t even sure who I was talking to.

  “Where’s the fun in that?” he asked.

  I arched an eyebrow. “I can think of some fun to be had with it.”

  He chuckled. “Me, too. That’s the problem.”

  “Why is it a problem?” I pulled off an Oscar-worthy job of sounding like I didn’t know.

  “Why did I come here today?” He picked up his glass and rolled the wine around in it, then set it down again and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t want you to get hurt. And if I’m really honest with myself, being close to me could get you hurt. Maybe in more ways than one.” He dropped his chin to his chest.

  I laid the spoon on the stovetop and stepped toward him. “My general reply to your concern for my safety is ‘I don’t care,’” I said, running one hand up his arm and catching his gaze. “What if I say it again?”

  His mouth edged up into the sexy smile that threaded through my better dreams. “Impossible. You are impossible. Believe me, I get it. When I’m here, I don’t care, either.” He shook his head. “That’s not true. I do, but not enough to go. When I get far enough away from you to get my head clear—that’s when I care. I know I’m putting you in danger. And I feel like a selfish jackass for wanting to call you. To kiss you. To be with you.” He whispered the last words as I stretched up on tiptoe to cover his lips with mine.

  Damn the pomodoro. (And everything else but Joey’s lips—and hands, which were behind me, turning off the stove.)

  Full. Speed. Ahead.

  Years of repressed hormones can do a number on a girl when they all go flying around at once.

  To wit: the jangled nerves I got whenever I considered the possibility of this moment were nowhere to be found when it was actually happening.

  I ran a light touch over his earlobe with my index finger and smiled at his sharp intake of breath. His mouth seared mine, the kiss equal in pent-up urgency from both sides.

  Joey’s strong, sure hands slid up and down my back as he dropped tiny kisses across the bridge of my nose and on each eyelid, a soft laugh rumbling through his chest when I reached behind his head to pull his lips back to mine.

  This kiss was different: he wound one hand into my hair and cupped my jaw with the other, exploring every millimeter of my mouth with his tongue at window-shopping speed. I worked his tie off, dropping it to the floor and moving my fingers to the buttons on his shirt. He caught both of my hands in one of his and pulled his head back a fraction of an inch, crooking a finger under my chin.

  “Wher
e’s the fire, Miss Clarke?”

  Um, it sure looked like it was in his eyes, pitch-black and smoldering. There are never smelling salts around when you need them.

  “You’re not serious.” I tried to ratchet my breathing back from chased-by-Freddy-Kreuger to decent-workout, but gave up after three seconds. “We don’t have the best track record with this.”

  “You’re expecting company?”

  “I wasn’t last time, either.” Huff-huff-pant. “Or the time before that.”

  He backed up half a step, pulling me with him, and shot a glance at the door. “It’s locked. As long as we leave it that way, we have all,” he kissed my forehead, “the time,” my nose, “in the world.” My lips.

  My knees dissolved. He fit one elbow behind my legs, scooping me into his arms, and pressed his forehead to mine.

  “You told me a story once about a fantasy that started this way.” He turned for the bedroom.

  “I have about a thousand fantasies that start this way.” Wow, my censor switch had flipped clean over to “off.”

  “Pick one.” He covered my mouth with his.

  Oh. My. God.

  I opened my eyes when I felt the soft chill of my down comforter against my back. Joey leaned over me, both elbows locked, triceps standing out under the cotton of his shirt.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said with such a serious face I had no reply, save for a nod and a whispered “back at you.”

  He smiled, and I pushed the spaghetti strap of my sundress off one shoulder. “You waiting for more of an invitation? Because I’m fresh out of stationery.”

  Shaking his head slowly, he lowered himself next to me. My heart threatened to slam right through my ribcage. He smiled, tracing my cheekbone with a feather touch. “I believe this is all the invitation I need.”

  And then he kissed me. Everywhere. I never knew a human being could withstand that much electricity and not go into heart failure. Somewhere in there, all the clothes came off, flung to the corners of the room.

  Propping himself on one elbow, Joey stared into my eyes like he could see into my heart. Maybe he could. Nothing registered except the heat radiating from his skin, and how badly I wanted him.

  “What are we getting ourselves into?” He brushed my hair out of my face. The way the muscles in his shoulders flexed with the simple motion was all it took to speed my breath again.

  “Let’s figure that out tomorrow.” I pushed myself up and kissed him, pulling him back down with me.

  He never broke eye contact.

  Fireworks flashed. Bells rang. A choir sang. Maybe just in my head, but I couldn’t swear to it.

  Lying next to him later, our arms and legs braided easily together, I ran my fingers over his chiseled chest. I wanted to say something, but words—for possibly the first time in my nearly thirty years—failed me.

  “I’m kinda glad you went snooping around Golightly’s church this morning,” Joey said, folding one arm behind his head.

  “That was the secret? I could’ve gone out there months ago.” I giggled.

  “Timing. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say.”

  I shook my head, tipping my chin up to look at him. “No more running away.”

  “I don’t want you to get hurt, Nichelle.” He sighed. “Selfish jackass, party of one.”

  “Two. Party of two.” I snuggled into his arms and resumed tracing nonsense patterns across his skin. He took a hitching breath and pulled me closer.

  I knew good and well there were special obstacles to being with Joey. But something that felt so right couldn’t be impossible. “We can be selfish together,” I murmured.

  I looked at him again when he didn’t reply. His eyes were locked on the ceiling fan.

  I laid a hand on his cheek and turned his face to mine.

  “We. Will. Figure. It. Out.” I punctuated the words with kisses, hoping I was telling the truth.

  He smiled. “We’re smart, right?” His voice was tight. I knew why, but didn’t have a good answer, so I just nodded. This moment was too perfect to let the what-if monster trash it.

  Returning my head to the spot between his shoulder and collarbone that seemed tailor-made for it, I closed my eyes. That smell was a thousand times more magical from where I lay.

  “I might never move.” I’m pretty sure I said that out loud. “What a way to end a rough week.”

  He ran his fingers lightly up and down my arm and over my back. “Dinner will wait. You feel like a nap?”

  I nodded ever so slightly and he hummed softly. His voice was exactly as I’d imagined: deep and safe, vibrating through his chest under my ear. It took me until sleep crept in from all sides to place the song: “It’s Impossible.”

  Maybe. But maybe not.

  13.

  Getting personal

  Peter Pan. Crowing over my head with Tinkerbell hot on his heels as Joey kissed me. From the heat in the kiss, Joey and I were headed straight for R-rated, non-Disney-sanctioned action. Tink pulled my hair. I swatted at her and returned my attention to Joey.

  “Is that your phone?” Joey’s voice sounded thick with sleep, a one-eighty from the urgent kisses.

  Damn. My phone.

  I shook myself out of the dream, still in Joey’s arms. Night had seeped through my roman shades while we dozed.

  I reached for the charger where I’d put my BlackBerry after Kyle and I returned from Way of Life three centuries ago. My fumbling fingers got it unplugged on the second try, and I cracked one eye at the glowing display.

  “My mother, master of timing.” I grabbed for a blanket like she could see us.

  Raising the phone to my ear, I pasted on a grin. “I miss you,” I said brightly. I did, craptastic timing and all. “What’s going on with you?”

  “I just got off the phone with Rhonda Miller.” She’d been crying and sounded half-hysterical. My breath stopped, thoughts of Kyle’s big teddy bear of a police officer father—and then Kyle himself—blasting the sleep right out of my head.

  My mom doesn’t cry.

  “Deep breaths, Mom. What’s wrong?” Joey sat up and laid a hand on my shoulder. I laced the fingers of my free hand with his.

  “She talked to Kyle earlier and he told her he tagged along with you to church this morning. The one that Golightly guy on TV runs.” She sobbed harder. “You can’t go back there, Nicey. Promise me right now you’ll stay away.”

  I dropped my jaw. And the phone. Scrambling to pick it up, I shooed Darcy back to her fluffy pink bed. “Mom, are you there? What the hell is the matter? And why do you care about Simon Golightly?”

  “What?” Joey’s fingers tightened on mine with his murmur of surprise and I threw him a WTF look and a shrug.

  “Stay away. Please.” I could barely make out Mom’s words.

  My brain refused to process it. I’d watched her endure years of chemo and radiation, losing the man she loved, and everything in between, and I’d never heard her bawl like that.

  “Okay, Mom.” I made soothing noises until her gulps of air quieted slightly. “You going to tell me why?”

  “Just promise me.”

  Crossing my fingers like a child, I felt guilty anyway as the lie slid through my lips. She was in Texas. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

  I plugged the phone back into the charger after I swore twenty more times to stay away from Golightly and ran mentally through thirty ways I could kill Kyle.

  Hugging my knees, I tried to shake the memory of my mom’s wails out of my head. “What is this guy into?” I wondered aloud. “And what could my mother possibly care?”

  Joey massaged my suddenly tight shoulders. “If I knew anything about your mother, I’d tell you. Is she really religious?”

  I shook my head. “We went to a bitty little church up the road from our house for most of my childhood, but she’s not super devout. And she’s never shown even a passing interest in TV Jesus. This is the weirdest thing ever. And I’ve seen some crazy stuf
f.”

  Darcy barked. I stood, pulling the blanket around me, and padded to the doorway. “I need to let her outside. You hungry?” I threw a glance over my shoulder at him.

  “Starving.” He flashed a wicked grin and stretched one hand toward me. I smiled, admiring his bare torso because…damn.

  “Pasta.” I leaned against the doorframe and tried for serious. Not sure it worked. Joey was in my bed. I sucked my cheeks in and bit them to keep from squealing like a schoolgirl at an Elvis concert. “I’ll turn the sauce back on.”

  He stared for a long minute and raised one eyebrow. “I’ll get your laptop?”

  “I left it in the car.” I smiled. “I wouldn’t have walked away, anyway.”

  “I know. Can you hand me my pants?” He waved a hand toward the top corner of my third-hand antique armoire.

  “Do I have to?” My turn for the wicked grin.

  “If you want your computer, it’d help.”

  “Do I really want it that bad?” I tipped my head and feigned indecision before I grabbed his trousers and tossed them to him.

  Yes, I did. With my mom’s raw voice and Golightly’s oily grin gnawing at my gut, I needed some answers.

  Joey left his collar unbuttoned and his tie off. I sat across my little bistro table from him in yoga pants and a Telegraph t-shirt, sipping wine and laughing between bites of pasta. Fork forgotten, he recounted how his grandmother blew up half her kitchen making lasagna one Christmas.

  “Half the side wall of their house gaping open, freezing air and snow rushing in—and my grandfather’s only worry was the food.” Joey grinned, spearing a tomato. “All that is to say, I come from a long line of men who take their pasta seriously. And my grandmother would approve of this.”

  I raised my glass. “I’m honored.”

  He said goodnight a half-hour later with a couple of long kisses and a promise to call the next day.

  “I’d stay if you’d let me.” He cradled my cheek in his palm. “Just so we’re clear.”

  Happy tears pricked the backs of my eyes, sending my lids into southern-belle flutter mode. “And I would love to let you.” Lord, would I. I cleared the lump out of my throat and kissed him again. “But if you stay, I won’t work. And I have at least one ginormous story that needs my attention. Very possibly two.”