Dead Giveaway

“Will you show me your hands?”

His expression darkened as if he’d finally guessed her motive. “No.”

“Mr. Montgomery—”

“I grow cotton, Officer McCormick. I rebuild antique cars. I fix my own tractors and repair my own house, barn and outbuildings. In other words, I use my hands. A lot. They’re not going to look like some pencil-pusher’s from the big city. I won’t let you use a knick here or a cut there as proof that I struck her.”

The fact that he’d called her Officer McCormick without even glancing at her badge told Allie he’d known all along who she was. They hadn’t exchanged a word since she’d been back, but his familiarity with her didn’t come as any big surprise. Word traveled fast in Stillwater.

“I’m not unrealistic, Mr. Montgomery,” she assured him. “Beth Ann has accused you of a very serious crime, and it’s my job to see if that accusation has any basis.”

“And if I refuse to cooperate?”

“It might raise my suspicions.”

“Which would affect the situation in what way, exactly?”

She lifted her chin at the challenge in his voice. It wasn’t much, but it was all she could do to overcome his tremendous height advantage. “I might have to arrest you and take you down to the station.”

“You and what army?” he asked, his eyes narrowing at the threat.

She smiled sweetly. “Trust me. I could arrange it.”

“I’d get an attorney,” he countered. “I happen to know a good one.”

He was referring to his sister Grace, of course, who’d worked as an assistant district attorney in Jackson before moving back to Stillwater nine months ago. “That’s your choice,” Allie said as amiably as possible. “Grace can join us. But if I remember right, she’s about to deliver a baby. Do you really want to wake her in the middle of the night and ask her to come out in the rain? It won’t make any difference in the end, you know. I’ll see what I want to see. It’ll just take longer.”

The muscle that flexed in his cheek told her what he thought of her response. He didn’t like being cornered. He reminded her of a lion trapped inside a small cage, a lion that paced back and forth, resenting his captivity.

After another long, defiant stare, Clay shrugged and thrust his hands at her. “I have nothing to hide.”

Allie checked his palms, then turned his hands over and examined the backs.

“So, did I beat a defenseless woman?” he asked sarcastically. “A woman who has no injuries?”

Allie noticed a few calluses and cuts, but no more than she’d expect to find on a man who worked outdoors. “I want pictures.”

“For what?”

“Proof.”

“I didn’t hit her!”

“A picture would show that your knuckles aren’t swollen and that your nails are too short to have made the gouges on her arm.”

He hesitated, obviously still skeptical that she was on his side. “There aren’t any gouges on her arm.”

“There are now,” she said. Even if Beth Ann’s injuries were self-inflicted, as Allie suspected, there were other people who might try to use those marks to pressure the D.A. into building a case against Clay. Reverend Barker’s nephew was one of them. Joe Vincelli hated the Montgomerys—and he had powerful friends. “Beth Ann’s a bit…undecided about what really happened. But that doesn’t mean Mr. Harris can’t press charges if he chooses to. Now…” Allie was reluctant to move any closer to Clay but she inched forward to avoid the rain dripping down her collar. “Would you please remove your shirt?”

“What?” he said as though she was out of her mind.

Where was Hendricks? she wondered. This would be easier if she had a male officer with her. “I think you heard me.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason I wanted to see your hands.”

She expected him to refuse her again. Allowing her to be in charge ran contrary to his nature. But he didn’t. Instead, he riveted his blue eyes on hers, and his sensuous lips curved in a devilish grin. “After you,” he said.

Obviously, he was changing tactics. The best defense was a good offense and all that. But she refused to let him rattle her. “I’m convinced you’ve seen much more than I have to offer,” she said. “I’m hardly centerfold material.”

“Maybe I like my women small.”

She conjured up a prudish expression. “If you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

He glanced in the direction of her cruiser, and she knew he’d probably find it demeaning to be examined in front of his accuser.

Damn Hendricks.

“We could go inside, if you prefer,” she said politely.

“Shouldn’t you get rid of her first? In case you decide to stay?” His suggestive smile indicated that he was still trying to make her as uncomfortable as possible.

“She’s fine where she is. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to control myself.”

Chuckling, he sauntered into the house as if he didn’t care, but she knew he did. The way he sobered the moment they were safe from Beth Ann’s prying eyes told her that much.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked softly and there was a hint of desperation in his voice.

After all the police interest he’d endured, Allie had little doubt he wanted to be left alone. But, for some reason, getting visual proof of his innocence was important to her. Word of what had happened tonight could provoke some strong reactions, and she’d always been a sucker when it came to the underdog.

Why she thought of Clay as the underdog she had no idea. Except that public opinion was already stacked against him, and he never tried to change it. He was his own worst enemy.

“If I specify in my report that your hands and body show no signs of an altercation, the district attorney will be much less likely to take action.”

“There wasn’t an altercation! All I did was end the relationship.”

It was the past that made the situation volatile. But Allie didn’t want to tell Clay that Beth Ann had claimed he’d confessed to Reverend Barker’s murder. If he wasn’t angry enough already that could do the trick. Why provoke a confrontation between them while they were in such proximity? She’d simply add Beth Ann’s statement to the file, where it’d join the plethora of other unsubstantiated claims Allie planned to investigate—slowly and methodically. “It’s for your own protection, Mr. Montgomery.”

She wasn’t sure he really believed her but, with a nod that seemed incongruously boyish for such a strong man, he pulled off his shirt.

Allie had never seen a more beautiful example of the male body. A gold medallion hung around his neck, fitting nicely in the groove between his pectoral muscles. It appeared to be a tribute to a Catholic saint, which surprised her. She didn’t think of him as particularly religious.

Their eyes met and, for a moment, she was afraid he could read her grudging appreciation of his looks.

“For a cop, you don’t seem very comfortable with some of the stuff you have to do,” he murmured, and this time all the bullshit was gone from his voice. The “I don’t give a damn what you do to me” and the “I’m too tough to care.” He’d ditched the whole “screw the world” routine.

“My forte is dead bodies, not live ones,” she said.