McIver's Mission

He also didn’t want to be hanging out at a smoky bar with the usual crowd, trying to seem duly enthralled with Sarah Jones, a court clerk he’d dated a few times last year. He was tired of the bar scene, weary of the dating game. Which was why he’d practically leaped at the opportunity to have dinner with Arden. He felt comfortable with her. And because he wasn’t trying to get her into his bed, he didn’t have to impress her. He didn’t have to pretend.

But if he really wasn’t interested in Arden, why was he finding it so difficult to tear his eyes from her? Why was he unable to stop imagining the subtle curves hidden beneath her tidy little suit?

In the interests of self-preservation, he moved away from her, stepping out of the kitchen to survey the modest apartment.

The living room walls were off-white in color and completely bare. No artwork or photos marred the pristine surface. The furniture was deep blue: a plush sofa and two matching chairs that were covered in some suedelike fabric. In front of the sofa was a dark wood coffee table polished to a high gloss. A matching entertainment unit sat against the opposite wall, containing a small television, a VCR and a portable stereo.

There was a short bookcase beside the front door with two framed photos on top of it. Shaun stepped closer. One frame held Nikki and Colin’s wedding picture, the other, their daughter, Carly’s, most recent school photo. There were no other mementos or knickknacks around the room. No magazines tossed on the coffee table, no decorative cushions on the sofa, no fancy lamps or little glass dishes. There were no plants or flowers, no signs of life. In fact, there was nothing in the room—save those two photos—that wasn’t useful or necessary.

Even the books on the shelves, arranged in alphabetical order, were legal texts. The room was very much a reflection of its tenant, he realized. Practical, efficient, ruthlessly organized. A beautiful façade, offering no hint of anything inside. The realization frustrated him, as did his sudden curiosity about a woman he’d known for so long. Except that he didn’t really know her at all.

He glanced in the direction of the dining room. At least, he assumed it was the dining room. It was hard to tell as the room was bare of furniture except for the packing boxes stacked four and five high against the back wall.

Beyond the dining room was a short hallway, probably leading to Arden’s bedroom. He turned away. The last thing he needed to think about was where she slept. What she slept in.

He moved back to the kitchen.

There were no dirty dishes in the sink, no crumbs on the countertop. Just the coffeemaker, currently bubbling away, and a microwave. Curious, he peeked over her shoulder as she opened the refrigerator again. She put the can of coffee inside and pulled out a carton of milk. Other than those two items, there were half a dozen containers of yogurt, a couple of cans of diet cola and a half-empty bottle of white wine. That was it. He frowned. No wonder her kitchen was spotless—she didn’t eat here.

As she closed the door again, he noticed the flutter of a small newspaper clipping that had been taped to the outside. It was the obituary of Denise Hemingway, age twenty-nine, and her four year-old son, Brian. He remembered reading about them in the paper, how they’d both been killed by Eric Hemingway—Denise’s husband, Brian’s father—before he’d turned the gun on himself.

It was hard to miss the story. Things like that might be commonplace in bigger cities, but in small-town Fairweather, Pennsylvania, domestic slayings were a rare occurrence and, consequently, front-page news. The victim, he realized, must have been Arden’s client.

He scanned further, noted that the funeral was…today.

Finally the pieces clicked into place and confirmed his earlier suspicions about Arden. She wasn’t cool or detached. She was a woman who cared about her clients, and cared deeply. Not only had she taken the time to go to the funeral, she’d shed deep, grief-filled tears for the mother and son who had lost their lives so tragically.

“How do you take your coffee?” Arden asked.

“Black.”

She filled the two mugs and handed one to him, then added a splash of milk to the other.

“Denise Hemingway,” he said, and saw her back stiffen.

She set the milk carton down before turning to face him.

“What about her?” Her eyes were stark, almost empty, her voice the same. But he knew now that it was a mask, that her emotions ran deep.

“She was your client?” he prompted.

Arden nodded.

“That’s where you were earlier today,” he guessed.

She nodded again. “Yes.”

She didn’t ask for his compassion, but he felt compelled to offer it. He set his mug on the counter and moved toward her, breaching the few-foot gap that separated them to take her in his arms. She resisted at first, her back straight, her shoulders stiff. But he continued to hold her, running his hand down her back, his fingers roaming over the silky fabric of her blouse.

Would her skin be as soft? He chastised himself for the wayward thought. He was supposed to be offering her comfort, not speculating about the feel of her naked skin beneath his hands.

She didn’t cry again, but she finally let out a long, shuddering breath and relaxed against him.

“She came to me for help,” Arden said, sounding completely dejected. “She was counting on me, and I let her down.”

“You did everything you could for her,” he said, knowing it was true, and knowing she would find no comfort in that fact.

Arden pulled out of Shaun’s arms. She didn’t want to talk about Denise and Brian, she didn’t even want to think about them right now. When Shaun went home, when she went to bed, she’d think about them then. She wouldn’t be able to stop. Nor would she be able to stop the nightmares that plagued her sleep.

“Why don’t we take our coffee into the living room?” she suggested.

“Okay,” Shaun agreed.

She was grateful that he didn’t ask any more questions or try to appease her with useless words or platitudes. Nothing anyone could say or do could make up for what had happened.

She moved over to the sofa and curled up in her usual spot at one end, then wished she’d chosen a chair when he sat down beside her. She wasn’t sure why she was so unnerved by his presence today. She’d spent a fair amount of time in his company over the past few years. When Arden had been living with her cousin, Nikki, and Nikki’s daughter, Carly, Shaun had visited often to spend time with his former sister-in-law and his niece. Maybe that was the difference. It was just the two of them tonight, and being alone with him felt strange to Arden.

“This is great coffee,” Shaun said.

Arden was grateful for the change of topic. “It’s Jamaican. I don’t share it with everyone, but I figure you earned it. Putting up with me this afternoon, buying me dinner.”

“It was my pleasure.”

She managed a smile. “I doubt it, but thanks.”

“That’s what friends are for,” he said easily.

She propped her feet up on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles as she settled back against the cushions. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me, McIver.”

“Did I suggest you did?”

“No, but I think your sudden offer of friendship was inspired by the fact that I cried on your shoulder. Believe me, it was a one-time thing.”

“That’s too bad,” he said. “I thought it was a pretty good excuse to hold you in my arms.”

“I wouldn’t think you needed any kind of excuse to hold a woman. Aren’t they lining up for the privilege?”

Shaun grinned. “I wasn’t talking about any woman. I was talking about you. You fit in my arms, Doherty.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I noticed it before, when we danced at Colin and Nikki’s wedding.”

Arden didn’t want to be reminded of the dance they’d shared. Of the way their bodies had melded together, like two pieces of a puzzle. It had made her wonder if they would mesh so perfectly if they were horizontal.

“Anything you want to share?” Shaun sounded amused.

“No,” she snapped, conscious of the flush in her cheeks.