Screaming To Be Solved Page 8

  She took it, immediately felt its heat, its calluses, its strength. She tried to focus, keep her mind in the moment, on the task, not on how his hand completely enveloped hers nor how easy and right it felt.

  “What-what about your work, files, things like that?”

  “In the Jeep. ‘Least most of the ones I need to look through. Don’t you worry about me. We need to get you to bed.”

  She smiled gratefully, only sorry that her hand was no longer in his. “I really appreciate it. I know you don’t have to do it. But it’ll help, knowing someone’s out there. Knowing they can’t take shots of my house at midnight or ring my doorbell at six a.m. Thank you.”

  “Not a problem. Happy to do it. Mind if I freshen up a bit first though, refill my coffee before heading out?”

  “Of course. I’ll put a fresh pot on. And you can wash up at Liz’s upstairs. She’s got a bathroom, small kitchen up there.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  “Grant,” she called as he headed for the steps. “Do not, I repeat, do not mess up anything in Liz’s room. Especially her prized bed. We’ll both be dead.”

  He smiled the biggest she’d seem him yet, enough to show straight white teeth. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  TWELVE

  It was all his fault. He knew it. No one else was to blame for the way he was feeling.

  He paced around the room that eerily dramatized his current chaotic emotions. Liz’s palace, and that’s exactly what she must’ve intended when furnishing the place, was drastically different than the cool, calm downstairs. In the short time it took to climb the spiraling old staircase from Marxie’s haven to Liz’s, one rocketed from peace to anarchy.

  A bright orange color bathed three walls while another, the longest of the room, was painted a dark cream. Gold, hot pink and blue-green lights, beads, lamps, and patterns flooded the living space and didn’t ease up much in the small kitchenette or bedroom.

  He couldn’t help but smirk when his pacing brought him to a picture of the statuesque blonde, puckering her lips for the camera. He had a feeling this space fit her to a T. On the dresser, in front of the photo of Liz, he picked up another, one that interested him far more than Liz’s kissable pose.

  It was a frame the color of emeralds with Best Friends embellished across the top. Liz, the willowy blonde, had an arm draped around a petite redhead with big, round eyes the color of wildflowers, creamy ivory skin, and a soft mouth upturned in a lazy smile. That face got to him every time.

  That face, he thought irritably, is exactly why he shouldn’t have taken the case. He set down the colorful frame with a clatter.

  From the beginning, he knew this woman would bring him something, he just didn’t know what. Now he saw it was added heartache. Added guilt to find out what really happened to Evan Vaughn.

  It was bad enough when they’d been downtown, when she’d actually thanked him for going with her to the morgue. Then tonight, she sat just inches from him, asking how he was, talking about his needs. She was not only intriguing, not only beautiful, but God, she was sweet. When she’d spoken of closure, he saw her pain, her need for it. The delicate face with its troubled features had tugged mercilessly at his heart.

  He’d almost broken down, told her what he knew to be true—Evan had been shot. Grant wanted to give her the answers he knew she desperately sought, wanted to bring some peace of mind to the chaos.

  But he couldn’t. He had to do this by the books—because that was working out so well already, right?—and that meant waiting on Lawson. Getting official details and facts before he told her anything.

  Finally stopping his restless steps with a huff, he padded to the small bathroom, complete with vivid colors, began to wash his hands, pat water on his face.

  It wasn’t unlike him to be devoted to a case, dedicated to a specific outcome, he mused. He’d been truthful earlier when he’d told Marxie about the haunted life he lived. Cases, and the people involved, called to him.

  But the Vaughn case, and Marxie Vaughn in particular, called to him almost as great as anything or anyone had before.

  Even his own personal case. And that was shocking for him.

  He had meant to tell her, had started to. About his past, his story. About seeing her photo, being captivated by it. But he didn’t. It wasn’t the right time. And the ringing phone had proved that. Cut him off just in time. Saved by the bell, Carter.

  Pulling out the toothbrush he’d grabbed from his car—he always kept a spare of everything, never knowing how long or late he’d be kept out—he swiped some toothpaste on it, began to brush.

  Staring at himself in the mirror, he saw what usually accompanied several days of incessant work with little sleep: shadows around his dark eyes, stubble that grew past the typical five o’clock shadow, and a sallow look to his cheeks. He needed food and sleep—two necessity’s he’d gotten precious little of since taking on Marxie and her dead husband’s mystery. He doubted he’d be getting as much of either as he liked until this was all over.

  He spit, wiped his mouth on a soft, bright hand towel.

  Was he a complete jerk for wanting this? Wanting her? In this midst of all this? Had his ethics, his professionalism gone completely down the tank because of one woman?

  And when did his life or job performance become something he had to question? Like Marxie had said, he worked for admirable things, did admirable deeds. He had to remember that, he told himself as he stared in the mirror, wondering whether to chastise or commend the reflection.

  Worries for another day, he conceded as he stripped off his tie, untucked his shirt, unbuttoned the cuffs, rolled them to his forearms. Tomorrow was always a new day. And in that day, he’d figure out something. He always did.

  For now, the only solution he knew to getting rid of the feeling Marxie Vaughn continued to fester in him was separation. The only way that would happen was solving the circumstances keeping them together.

  Lawson was giving him something tomorrow, Grant decided, giving all the little towels one last straightening so the friend would never even know he’d been in here. Like it or not, that skinny M.E. was giving Grant Carter answers bright and early in the new light of tomorrow.

  ****

  She’d expected him to be gone by daylight, but when she sauntered into the kitchen for her morning coffee she saw him out the window, sitting in his Jeep, looking, as her Grandpoppy would say, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She walked to the window, pulled back the sheer curtain and stood until he noticed her. When he did, she waved at him, motioned him in.

  In a few moments he pecked at the door.

  She opened it, smiled. “Morning. Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

  When he gave her an appealing grin back, she suddenly became conscious of the fact that she had on zilcho make-up.

  “Up and at ‘em.” He held up the large travel mug she’d filled for him the previous evening. “Rise with the sun, Mama always said, and you’ll catch the best of the day. Or in this case, just never go to bed and you won’t have to worry about it.” He chuckled.

  “That sounds more like it.” She gestured to her thick robe, her messy hair pined atop her head as they headed to the kitchen. “I am definitely a night owl. I work better then, think better too. I can’t remember if I’ve always been that way or it just became part of me after Evan died. I’d stay up so late sometimes I’d see the sun rise.”

  He stared at her, interest in his eyes. Male interest? No. This was a detective standing in her kitchen, drinking her coffee. Not a man. Well, he was a man, but not a man. Not an available, wanting-a-date-with-her man.

  At even the mere thought of dating, namely dating someone who stood in her kitchen before 7 a.m. while she was half-dressed, Marxie realized things were getting a little too comfortable between her and the handsome detective. She cleared her throat, adjusted the belt around her waist, closing the robe tighter. “Any activity last night?”

  “More of the same. One or two v
ans cruised by, different channel numbers on them. I caught a few of their eyes, think they got my drift.”

  She smiled. “Thank you so much. I’d like to say I could’ve handled it, but sleep was really nice.” She turned, snagged a clean mug from the cabinet, and poured it to brimming with hot, black coffee. “I hope you’re able to go home, get some sleep. I’m sure you must be exhausted.”

  “Not too bad.” Again, he raised his mug. Sent her one of the looks that had come to make her uncomfortable . . . in a strangely comfortable sort of way. “I will go home though, get some shut eye. I’ve got things to do too today, namely paying another visit to our friend Lawson.”

  Right. Evan. He was here because of Evan.

  She nodded, leaned forward across the little bar to reach where he sat on a barstool, filled his mug again. “Yes. That’d be good. Please let me know if you hear anything.”

  “You’ll be the first.”

  “Well, I’ve got meetings galore, so I need to get going.” She flipped a thumb toward her bedroom.

  “Of course. Thank you for the coffee.”

  “Anytime.”

  They walked to the door. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, inclining his head slightly toward her.

  “Thanks.”

  When he breezed out, she closed the door softly behind him. Locked it.

  And watched him as he walked back to his car.

  Well, that was one way to do it, Grant thought as he watched Marxie grab a briefcase stuffed to its brim and lock the front door behind her. Just force him out. That could do the trick to stopping this little fantasy he had going with her.

  She wasn’t as warm this morning, not as she had been last night in the glow of the softly lit living room. But that’s what they both needed. What he needed at least. She wasn’t required to appease his ill-timed attraction to her. So good for her.

  At any rate, the more he thought on it on his long night in the car, the sudden appearance of that reporter last night had brought him back to earth, made him look at things as he usually did—alert and undistracted.

  Call him crazy, but that unexpected visit put him on edge, made him realize that could’ve been anyone knocking on her door. What would she have done if he hadn’t been there? If it wouldn’t have been a reporter but someone else who knew about Evan and what really happened to him? Someone who didn’t want the real picture to be seen?

  Sure, he didn’t have any evidence for this. No reason at all to think this was anything other than shoddy police work, bad evidence collecting and a department too eager to close a case on a lost man while convicting another. But something inside just wasn’t setting right. Until it did, he’d make sure he knew where she was at all times.

  He knew he wasn’t being overprotective on this one. He’d seen it happen enough for the red flags to raise: An unsuspecting person gets ambushed, and bam, life is over. Or forever changed. That’s what had happened to him and his family after all.

  Not now, Grant. Don’t think of that now.

  He focused, watched Marxie settle into her car, fool with the radio, fuss with something in the seat beside her, and finally put the car in reverse.

  He considered following her as she pulled out of the driveway and swung onto the main street, but he had work of his own to do and he figured she’d be going straight to a client meeting where she’d be surrounded by people. He’d seen her through the first part of isolation in her day. But it wouldn’t last forever.

  And he’d be back.

  THIRTEEN

  Professionalism was Marxie’s forte. Being on time was a part of being professional, so she was slightly irritated that Rick Williams insisted on being late to every meeting they planned. After his email last night requesting that they meet today, she had been right on time, and now, she idly searched through drawings and books, mentally moved chairs, desks, lamps, and shelves to fit what she’d envisioned as an efficient, yet grand set-up for Rick’s office.

  As expected, he breezed in at 10:15, smiling as if he hadn’t made her wait in the slightest. Yet in the grand scheme of things, what was a quarter of an hour, compared to the several quarters’ worth of money she was getting from this account? Sometimes, professionalism also meant enduring the crap that clients dolled out. She didn’t like that part. But she grinned and beared it. It was worth it in the end.

  “Ms. Vaughn, so nice to see you today.” He beamed, one of the polished, powerful smiles she was positive his clients saw on a regular basis.

  “And you.” She smiled up at him as he eased a hip onto the corner of his desk. “Ready to get started?”

  “Always ready.” He grinned as he made his way back behind his great mahogany desk.

  “I’ve brought some plans with me today.” She thrust the stack of papers in her hands onto the desk, reached in her briefcase for more. “I don’t believe you’ll have as many changes in here as John will in his office. Most of your revamps will be cosmetic, where as John’s are leaning towards actual demolition and construction as well as new pieces and furniture.”

  She rose to walk around the office, get a feel for the space. “Here,” she gestured to matching 7-foot tall shelving units flanking a large window, “these shelves are fine. Built-in’s are always nice, functional. If you’d like, we can give them a facelift, but I think the cherry oak is great.” She went, rubbed a hand over the solid, red-tinted wood.

  “So you think I’m better than John?”

  “Excuse me?”

  A cat-like sneer spread over Rick’s face. “Well, obviously I have better taste than the old man. You said few changes in here, many in there,” he jerked a thumb in the direction of John’s office. “Must mean I’ve already done a pretty decent job in here.” He winged his brows up. “Need a partner?”

  Marxie laughed nervously, tried to remain calm and not let her frustration at his arrogance and distractions get under her skin. And wasn’t she so glad she’d remembered to wear pants today? His eyes couldn’t scan her bare legs that way. Although at the moment they weren’t doing too bad a job roaming over her other parts. She bit back a bark of bad attitude and smiled instead. “Not looking for one now, but thanks for the offer. Now, I do think we need to replace the overhead light, maybe put some recess lights in over here.” She pointed a line out over both shelves. “Get in some end tables to match that gorgeous desk, put some classy lamps on one or two of them. Thoughts?” Marxie turned back to him, saw he was grinning lasciviously.

  “Gorgeous, indeed.”

  She flicked her eyes back to the shelves. “Remember what John said, this is business.”

  “Well, then, if you’re going to be that way.” He stretched out in his chair, eyed the ceiling. “Yes, a new light would be good. This one looks like it was hung there when old Monroe started the place. I need something elegant, strong, rich.” He laughed, loud and slightly piercing.

  Yes, she had pegged his taste just right. A flair for the expensive. Rich, ostentatious, a little over-bearing. She had hoped to incorporate that while scaling it down to reflect a workable atmosphere. If clients came in to an office littered with gold décor, slick shiny silver, evidently expensive items, they would not be receptive. That was typical lawyer. She wanted something tasteful, not tacky.

  “Of course,” she nodded. “We’ll find whatever you like. I’ve brought several samples and books for you to look through. I’ve noted John’s choices, in case you want to coordinate, or steer clear of his picks.” She walked to her briefcase to retrieve the samples.

  “Good point. I think I’ll steer clear. Isn’t the idea of this whole thing to bring ourselves up-to-date, be new, be different?”

  “Yes and no.” She rose, slid the books on his desk. “We don’t want to be too different, that’ll defeat the purpose of the cohesiveness we were going for. Right now, everything’s a bit disjointed. Colors out there don’t flow to colors in here.” She walked to a long, narrow window, looked out and turned back to survey his office. “Décor in the l
obby is casual; décor in John’s office, minimal, out-dated; décor in here, elegant, posh. We need to find a way to bring all that together. We’ve pretty much accomplished that in the lobby, conference rooms, and restrooms, but you two are the ones I need to work on. Your tastes are so different.”

  “In some things.”

  “In most things,” she corrected casually.

  “Not in you.”

  She smiled politely. “I’m glad you both like what I’m doing. That’s important to me.”

  “I’m speaking on a more personal level.” He walked closer. “I like you, specifically, Marxie. How about dinner tonight?”

  She fidgeted, pushed her hair behind her ear. “Um, that’s not an option.”

  “Why?” he lifted her left hand, inspected her ring finger. “You’re not taken are you?”

  “No, but we have a business relationship, we can’t muddy that with personal feelings.” She pulled her hand from his grip, wiped it conspicuously against her pants leg.

  She couldn’t find a better or more polite refusal. Telling him flat-out seemed as though it might anger him, but she would not compromise herself, professionally or personally, to go out with a man she was not interested in.

  She thought she might yell with relief when the chirpy ring of her cell phone pierced the air. “I need to get that,” she breathed, and she shrugged past him.

  She went to her purse, scrambled for her phone and flipped it open. “Hello?”

  “Marxie, you okay?” Grant. Thank you, Grant. She breathed a quick sigh of relief.

  “Yeah.”

  “You sound out of breath.”

  “No. I’m working. What’s up?”

  “Do you have a minute? Can you meet somewhere? Or can I come to you?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “I just left a meeting with Lawson. You’ll want to hear this.”