Hard To Handle

“He’s a good-looking kid.”

The deep voice rumbling in her ear made her start, and she snatched her hand away. Putting a finger to her lips, she walked to the door and waited for Connally to follow. Then she flipped on the hallway light, being careful to leave Danny’s door open. By the time she’d led him back to the living room she’d run out of both patience and composure.

“It’s been a long day. I’m going to follow Danny’s lead and retire soon myself.”

Her attempt at a dismissal failed sadly. Connally’s mouth quirked. “Could I get a glass of water before you throw me out?”

“I’m not—” Pressing her lips together midprotest, Meghan turned and marched to the kitchen. There was something about that man, she fumed, snatching a glass from the cupboard and waiting for the water to run cold, that had her stuttering and stammering like an adolescent. She seemed to have difficulty finishing a sentence around him, and she suspected that he deliberately tried to keep her off balance.

When she returned with the glass, Connally wasn’t where she’d left him. Instead, he’d poked into her study, and seemed quite at home surveying the works in progress she had tacked up on the walls.

The sight stoked her temper further. She’d never enjoyed having people look at her work before it was finished. Even her agent didn’t see her sketches until she’d painstakingly redone them to her satisfaction. Privacy was something that had been hard fought for, hard won. She didn’t relinquish it easily.

“Your water, Detective.” Her voice was several degrees cooler than the liquid in the glass. He didn’t turn at her voice. He was shaking his head slowly.

“Wow. These are yours, right?”

The admiration in his tone slightly soothed nerves that were scraped and raw. “Yes. I’m currently working on illustrations for another Milton Cramer book. It’s about a lonely monster who’s looking for friends, but I’m going to have to scale some of these drawings back. I’m afraid they might give the children nightmares.”

Gabe walked from one large sketch to another, studying each carefully. “You’re probably right. They kinda give a chill.” He sent her a measuring glance. “I read you had something to do with art, but I figured maybe one of those high-priced galleries or something. The ones where they hang pictures that don’t look like anything.”

Her earlier calm shattered as she grasped the meaning behind his words. “You ‘read’?” He’d used those same words earlier, she remembered, when he’d spoken about Sandra. Her eyes narrowed. “Am I correct in assuming you’ve been checking up on me?”

He seemed unfazed by the fury on her face, in her voice. “Hazard of the job.” He approached her and took the glass from her hands and drank. “You didn’t seem to want to explain any further about your sister, so I did a little checking.”

The ease with which he explained away prying into her life, her family, with all its twisted, dysfunctional fragments, made her shake with anger.

“Well, I have to hand it to you, Detective. You move fast.” She went toward the door, her movements jerky, and yanked it open. “I’m sure they have quite a file on Sandra at CPD. The cops always liked to do a background check before they decided to use her in any way they could.”

He sipped from the glass and watched her, his pale eyes giving nothing away. “If there’s a file, I haven’t seen it. I pulled up the Tribune’s archives. You’ve gotten a fair amount of press yourself over the years.”

His words were like a blade, tearing through the fragile shroud of privacy she’d sought for so many years. Seclusion had always proved elusive for her family. The huge gates around the family estate had seemed more effective at keeping them in, than in keeping the rest of the world out. Her hand clenched on the knob, longing to slam the door shut with a resounding bang, preferably on him.

“You’re mad.”

“It must be your excellent deductive skills that earned you the rank of detective.” He didn’t appear about to leave. When a neighboring tenant walked by the open door and glanced in curiously, Meghan swung it shut, wishing the detective’s big foot were caught in it.

“I can understand why you might blame the department for what happened to your sister.”

She regarded him warily from her position by the door. For some reason she was loath to get any closer. “Thanks. You can’t know what your validation of my opinion means to me.”

He thought it wise to ignore her sarcasm. “I’ve pieced together enough to figure out how it went down. Your sister offered to help Wadrell with his investigation. Word somehow got to the press that a psychic was being consulted. The media dug up her name and that was made public, too. Your sister wound up dead and you think the gang Wadrell was investigating is responsible.” He watched her soberly. “And you blame the police.”

The brief dispassionate narrative made Meghan’s mouth go dry. The words, honed with truth, arrowed with painful accuracy. “They didn’t protect her. She put herself at risk to help them and then ended up with her name in headlines. It was an open invitation for those thugs to go after her.”

Interest flickered in his eyes. “Do you know for certain that she was threatened?” Wadrell, when pressed, had claimed otherwise.

Meghan looked away. “Sandra didn’t mention anything, no.” In masterful understatement she continued, “But then, we weren’t particularly close.”

He was silent for a moment. “In any case, I think you had a legitimate fear. One that deserved to be looked into.”

“According to your department, it was looked into. Are you going to spew the party line, too, and tell me that her car accident was just a coincidence?”

Her words were delivered like a dare. Because he recognized the pain underlying them, he kept his tone even. “Is that what you were told?”

Voice brittle, she said, “I was assured that a thorough investigation of the accident was conducted. Sandra supposedly went over that embankment because she misjudged the curve, not because the car had been tampered with. It was just plain old bad luck, but gee, the department sure regrets our loss.” She stopped then, and pressed her lips firmly together.

“But you don’t believe that.”

“Would you?”

He set the glass down on a nearby table and then straightened again. “If I were in your shoes? Probably not.”

Her gaze swung back to him. She’d expected him to ridicule her beliefs, or to hotly defend his department’s ethics. His failure to do either took her off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He unzipped his battered leather jacket and slipped his hands in the pockets. His stance drew her eyes to the width of the shoulders, the narrow waist and lean hips. The body was as impressive as the face. He radiated strength, determination and heat. She had no doubt that countless women had been attracted to that combination, had sought to warm themselves with his fire. She was equally certain that each of them had ended up badly burned.

He shrugged, snagging her attention again. “Since you’re blaming the department for your sister’s name being made public, you’d be apt to question the investigation of the accident.” Taking a step backward, he leaned one shoulder against the wall. “I’m still having trouble trying to figure out why you’d go to Wadrell for help with this. I’d think with the grudge you’re carrying, he’d be the last one you’d trust, seeing that he was primary detective on the case your sister was involved with.”

Because he owes us!

The hot words blazed across her mind, but remained unuttered. She had no intention of explaining herself to this man. “Yes,” she replied flatly. “He was.”

She crossed to the couch and sank down on it. She didn’t like the way Connally watched her, as if he could read her emotions, the jumbled pain, anger and regret, all too clearly. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable, although it shouldn’t have. She was a master at shielding her thoughts. She had her childhood with Sandra to thank for that.

“Detective Wadrell naturally feels badly about my sister’s death.” Only the slightest hint of irony tinged her words. “He’s offered to look into the accident report himself, double-check the conclusions by running them by another investigator he knows.”

Connally said nothing, only continued to watch her. A sense of unease slid down her spine. There was a stillness about the man that had her nerves prickling. All his concentration, all his considerable energy was focused on her, and the intensity was unsettling. She wondered if he used this brooding contemplation to effect, when staring down a suspect. There was something about the simmering silence that made her want to fill the void with words, though she’d never been one to babble.

With effort, she glanced away, crossed one leg over the other and smoothed her skirt. She’d expected the detective to chide her for her lack of faith in the CPD, rather than express understanding. But it didn’t matter. Nothing he could say would sway her from her goal, at any rate. She’d use Wadrell just as he’d used her sister. There was no question of feeling guilty about it. The cost of Sandra’s cooperation with the department had been high. Danny had lost a mother. Meghan had lost a sister. She’d never believe that a simple accident was the cause. Nothing about Sandra had ever been simple. Certainly not her death.

“Is Wadrell hoping you’ll take your sister’s place in his investigation?”

Her head jerked up. Gabe’s expression was inscrutable. “No. Sandra’s ability isn’t exactly something that runs in the family, like blond hair.” She held her breath, wondering if he’d accept the blatant untruth.

He nodded, and she breathed a little easier. She doubted whether he was convinced of the authenticity of Sandra’s talent, at any rate. He struck her as a very pragmatic man. He’d believe only what he could see, could prove.

“Wadrell’s a decent cop, but there’s not a considerate bone in his body. I can only think of one other reason he’d offer to help. And that’s to get close to you.”

“Do you think I don’t know that, Detective?” It was her turn to surprise him. She took a grim satisfaction in his reaction. “I’m not naive. I know exactly what motivated your buddy’s offer of assistance. And I don’t care what his intentions are, as long as I get what I want.”

With slow, deliberate movements he pushed away from the wall and approached her, one methodical step at a time. He set the glass down and braced his hands on the coffee table. Face close to hers, he murmured, sotto voce, “He’s not my buddy.”

His proximity leeched the air from her lungs. She’d underestimated the man. His presence was even more compelling up close, close enough for her to see the flecks of gold in his pale eyes, near enough for her to reach up a hand and trace every hard angle of his face.

Her fingers curled into her palms. She refused to let him see the effect he had on her, the cost of her careless shrug. “Sorry. From what you said it sounded like you knew him well.”

He gazed at her a moment longer, then slowly straightened. Her strangled lungs drew in much-needed oxygen. “I know him well enough to realize he’s not the type to do a favor without expecting something in return.”

He wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t already figured out for herself, but the words, spoken out loud, made her hesitate. She’d taken grim satisfaction in the idea of using Wadrell to answer the questions she still had about the accident. It was, she’d thought, no more than was due them. And if he expected more than she was willing to give in return, rejection was exactly what he deserved. Although, she remembered, with a faint shudder, having to dodge his interest tonight had filled her with nothing short of revulsion.