Deadly Reunion
Lauren Nichols
When Lindsay Hollis's brother died, so did her passionate, whirlwind marriage to bounty hunter Ike Walker, the man she held responsible. Now nearly two years later, Ike was back, determined to prove once and for all that he wasn't to blame–and Lindsay was damn well going to help him do it.Bringing a killer to justice meant working closely with the man she thought was in her past–and risking the comfortable, safe life she'd struggled to build. But like the criminal who'd targeted her brother, the deep-rooted desire Ike could always evoke refused to stay buried.This could be Lindsay's second chance at love…. If she lived long enough.
Lindsay swallowed hard as the walls she’d built around her heart to keep him out began to crumble.
Dammit, she didn’t want to feel anything for him! But the well-deep emotions Ike could always evoke refused to stay buried.
A heavy feeling of dread settled over her as she tried not to notice how well his shirt fit his broad shoulders. Tried not to admit that no man had ever looked better in jeans and boots, or that the faint shadow on his jaw and longer length of his dark brown hair only added to his blatant masculinity.
Tried to forget how deeply and pathetically she’d loved him during the six months they’d been together.
She failed. If anything, their nearly two years apart only added maturity to his rugged, sexy good looks and made him even more attractive.
Deadly Reunion
Lauren Nichols
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LAUREN NICHOLS
started writing by accident, so it seems fitting that the word accidental appears in her first three titles for Silhouette. Once eager to illustrate children’s books, she tried to get her foot in that door, only to learn that most publishing houses used their own artists. Then one publisher offered to look at her sketches if she also wrote the tale. During the penning of that story, Lauren fell head over heels in love with writing fiction.
In addition to her novels, Lauren’s romance and mystery short stories have appeared in several leading magazines. She counts her family and friends as her greatest treasures, and strongly believes in the Beatles’ philosophy—“All You Need Is Love.” When this Pennsylvania author isn’t writing or trying unsuccessfully to give up French vanilla cappuccino, she’s traveling or hanging out with her very best friend/husband, Mike.
Lauren loves to hear from her readers. You can contact her at www.laurennichols.com.
For Mike with all my love.
You’re always there for me.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 1
He’d rather be touring hell.
Gunning his black Explorer up the narrow lane and away from the quaint little harbor, Michael “Ike” Walker bit back two years of resentment and continued to scour the street for a rambling, white nineteenth-century Victorian that needed work. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing her again because he knew what kind of reception he’d get. But in his mind he had no choice. With a sudden jolt, he spotted the house, sitting on a double lot—a fair amount of space for homes so close to the water.
Slowing his SUV, he pulled into his ex-wife’s driveway, parked and stepped into the dusky June evening.
He gave the place a cursory inspection as he crossed the yard and ascended the steps to her wraparound porch, determined to keep moving so he didn’t change his mind and trade face-to-face for a phone call.
It was a lot of house for one person, he decided, scowling as he rang the bell. Then again, maybe that “one person” status had changed.
Not that he gave a damn. She was welcome to see and do whatever she pleased now—just as he was. Ike rang the bell a second time, impatient to get this over with.
From deep inside, Lindsay’s lilting “Just a minute” carried through the screens on the jutting windows fronting the house. Then seconds later, she opened the inside door, her eyes widened in shock, and her welcoming smile fell apart.
Time stretched out on tenterhooks.
In the gathering dusk, the low, melancholy horn of a tugboat sounded as their past played out in her pretty, sea-green eyes, all the hurt, all the sadness, all the blame, trembling like heat lightning over dark, rolling waters. And beneath it all, Ike felt that old twitch, that old familiar need, and he hated himself for it. They were over—had been over for eighteen months now.
Finally, she drew a stabilizing breath. “Hello, Ike.”
“Lindsay,” he returned. As usual when he looked at Lindsay, his hormone levels rose in direct relation to everything his gaze touched. Her thick blond hair was sun-streaked and tied back with a ribbon, and she was trim and lightly tanned in fringed, cutoff jeans and a soft green T-shirt that nearly matched her eyes.
It bothered him that she looked so good. Because suddenly he was back in their old, sheet-tangled bed, losing himself in her, feeling her warm breath and soft laughter against his neck. Glorying in the way her body fit so perfectly with his.
But she was waiting for a reason for his visit.
“We need to talk,” he said in a clipped voice, then nodded through the screen door. “Can we do it in there?”
“That depends,” she replied stiffly. “Can we do it without entertaining the neighbors?”
“I can, if you can.”
Her reluctant expression said she doubted it, but she stepped back and allowed him to enter anyway. One boot hit dark, polished hardwood; the second came to rest on the Oriental rug covering most of the elevated landing.
Ike caught a whiff of varnish and potpourri as his gaze quickly slid up the dark oak stairs leading to the second level, then darted into her dramatic cream, rose and burgundy living room, two steps below. The room was a startling contrast to the house’s slightly run-down exterior, full of beautifully appointed nooks and crannies. Assorted sizes and shapes of framed prints, flowered swags and hanging plants nearly covered the creamy walls, and rose-colored drapes topped the lace curtains on the triple-windowed bay. Most of her furniture looked new, except for the tables he knew she’d refinished…and that deep rose-colored chair they’d picked out together.
Apparently, she was finally spending the money she’d been awarded years ago in her dad’s wrongful-death suit.
“Nice,” he remarked grudgingly as he followed her down into the living room, a far cry from his sterile efficiency apartment in Portland.
“Thanks.” Then, as though she felt she had to explain her new residence, she added, “It’s closer to work.”
She clicked on the hurricane lamps flanking the cream-and-rose-print sofa situated catty-corner near a set of French doors. “How did you find me?”
“Your mother.”
That stopped her in midclick. Turning, she waited expectantly.
“I dropped by our old apartment first, but some woman with a bunch of cats lives there now. When she told me you’d moved back here, I assumed you were living with Arlene, so glutton-for-punishment that I am, I drove to her place.”
The flicker of sympathy and the quick sheen in Lindsay’s eyes surprised him. “Oh,” she murmured, glancing away. “How did that go?”
“About the way you’d guess.” Despite the arms-around-the-world sign marking the town limits, not everyone in picturesque little Spindrift, Maine was warm and welcoming. “I was cordial. She wasn’t. If she’d known the big bad bounty hunter was back in town, I expect she would’ve rounded up all the crucifixes and strung garlic over the doors and windows.”
Lindsay swallowed hard as the walls she’d built around her heart to keep him out began to crumble, letting the hurt back in. Dammit, she didn’t want to feel anything for him! She was seeing someone else now, trying to make a new life for herself. But the well-deep emotions Ike could always evoke refused to stay buried.
Needing a moment to regain control, she motioned him into the wing chair they’d bought at an auction a month after their marriage, then turned and started for the kitchen. “Have a seat. I made a fresh pot of coffee a while ago. I’ll pour you a cup.”
“Thanks, but I won’t be here long enough to drink it.” He didn’t speak again until she turned back. “Something happened yesterday afternoon—something that I need to look into. I can’t do that without your help.”
A heavy feeling of dread settled over her as she wandered a few steps back to him, all the while trying not to notice how well his black polo shirt fit his broad shoulders. Trying not to admit that no man had ever looked better in jeans and boots than Ike did, or that the faint shadow on his jaw and longer length of his dark brown hair only added to his blatant masculinity. Trying to forget how deeply and pathetically she’d loved him during the six months they’d been together.
She failed. If anything, their nearly two years apart had added maturity to his rugged, sexy good looks and made him even more attractive.
Nervously she moistened her lips. “Is this about us?”
“Hardly,” he replied curtly. “The last time I looked, there was no us.”
Lindsay’s hackles went up. “Dammit, Ike, don’t make me sorry I opened my door.”
“You asked a question. I answered it.”
She glared at him. Sighing wearily, she mentally counted to ten and met his dark eyes again. They were falling back into their old bickering ways, and she couldn’t handle that anymore. The harsh things they’d said to each other the last time they were together still made her cringe—because it was incomprehensible that they would ever come to that. “Maybe you should just tell me what’s on your mind so we can both get on with our evenings.” And lives.
“Fine. A young bail jumper was killed in a drive-by shooting near the Portland Police Station yesterday afternoon. It happened as Tank Exton was hauling him back to jail. Ring any bells?”
It did. Déjà vu struck hard, freezing the air in Lindsay’s lungs. Slowly, she moved a pink accent pillow aside, then lowered herself to the corner of her sofa. She looked up at Ike. “Go on.”
“Just before the Decker kid was killed, a witness heard him say that he wanted to be transferred to another facility. The skip said if he stayed there, he’d never live to testify against his dealer. He said it had happened before—two years ago.”
Chills shot through her, and images of her younger brother flashed through Lindsay’s mind: Ricky giggling and finger painting at three…Ricky pumping his short legs around the Little League bases while she, her mom and dad cheered him on…Ricky older, and defiantly telling her to butt out of his life. Suddenly she was shaking inside and her voice had lost its strength.
“Maybe the witness was mistaken. Maybe he only thought he heard—”
“The witness was an off-duty cop I know, and he wasn’t mistaken. I saw Tank at his gym this morning. He confirmed it.”
Lindsay had to stand, had to walk, had to focus on what Ike was implying and try to make sense of it. “That doesn’t mean yesterday’s shooting is related to Ricky’s death,” she said defensively. Losing him had been horrible and heartbreaking, but—but fights break out in jails. Isn’t that what they’d told her and her mother? “Isn’t the man who hit him still serving time?”
“He wasn’t hit, Lindsay, he was beaten to death, and the con who did it was already looking at a couple of life sentences. One more murder wasn’t going to increase his time behind bars. And I’d bet a year’s pay that he or his family benefited from it in some way.”
The trembling inside worked its way to her extremities as she began to realize what this could mean. “Dear God,” she breathed. To her, to her mother…and to Ike.
“The drive-by’s being investigated, but no one on the force wants to believe that the two deaths are related. The truth is they don’t want to reopen a closed case. The current crop of badasses is keeping them so busy they just plain and simple don’t have the time or the inclination to look into it. So unless some pretty substantial evidence shows up linking the crimes, Ricky’s death remains a random killing. And the person who ordered it gets off scot-free.”
Ike met her eyes, his gaze strong and determined. “If evidence exists that proves Ricky’s death was a hit, we need to find it. I need to find it. Lindsay, I’ve been living with this for two years.”
Did he think he was the only one who was still hurting? “We’ve all been living with it for two years.”
“But I’m the only one with blood on his hands.”
Lindsay’s chin jerked up. As moments ticked by, and he stood there waiting for a response, she knew she couldn’t disagree. He had been responsible. Not in the literal way he’d stated, but against her wishes, he’d put Ricky in a place that had ended his life.
He spoke quietly. “Well, since you’re not rushing to reassure me that I was just doing my job, apparently your mother isn’t the only one who still blames me.”
“Ike—”
“No, it’s okay. I’ve gotten used to it.”
But he shouldn’t have had to get used to it. And all he would’ve have to do was to listen to her.
Against her will the past rushed back, full-blown, and Lindsay tried to block it out. She didn’t want to think about that day—didn’t want to remember the flood of tears or the minister and police officer who’d come to her mother’s door. But she couldn’t stop the images, and once again she was back in her mother’s kitchen, hearing her mother’s agonizing screams for Ike to get out—that he’d delivered her only son to his executioner.
The look of helplessness in Ike’s eyes had torn her heart and her loyalties in two…until her mother had collapsed with chest pains. Lindsay had been terrified that she’d lose her mother and brother on the same day.
That day had been the beginning of the end for them. It was the first time their six-month marriage had been tested, and it was more than they could survive.
And now, Ike was telling her that Ricky’s death wasn’t just a random, unfortunate event. That someone had wanted him out of the way and had probably paid handsomely to make sure his wishes were carried out.
Horrified, she searched Ike’s expression. “Who ordered this, Ike? Who wanted Ricky dead?”
“I don’t know. Yesterday, I spoke to the narc who arrested him. He thinks Rick was hooked up with a new supplier—someone small, who’s now getting bigger, but still so far underground they don’t have a clue to his identity.”
“You should have let Tank bring him in,” she said shakily, not for the first time. “Tank had the fugitive contract on Ricky, not you.”
A glimmer of the compassionate man she’d once loved broke through his strong exterior. “I’ve explained my reasons a thousand times. Do I have to do it again?”
Shaking her head, she moved to her bay window to look out at the deepening dusk. Tank was a friend, but he tended to strong-arm skips who balked, a trait Ike was aware of since they both did legwork for the same bail bond company. And they all knew Ricky would resist—even her mother knew it—because that’s the kind of person her baby brother had become. That’s why Ike had insisted that he be the one to track Ricky down when Ricky missed his court date—no matter how hard Lindsay had pleaded for him to stay out of it. Even Tank had argued that Ricky was family and picking him up would cause more bad blood than Ike could handle. But all of their warnings had fallen on deaf ears. When Ike got something in his head—when he was convinced that he was right—nothing dissuaded him.
Deep inside, she knew Ricky would be just as dead if Tank had picked him up. But Ike’s involvement had made it so much worse because she’d begged him—and he’d said no. Her wishes had been summarily dismissed.
If Ricky had lived and her mother hadn’t fallen ill, maybe they could’ve put it all behind them. But that’s not what happened.
How tragic that he hadn’t wanted Ricky hurt…yet he’d ended up hurting all of them.
His deep voice came from behind her. “All of Rick’s things—everything from his apartment—were taken to your mother’s house and stored in his old room after his death. Unless something’s changed, we both know that nothing’s been touched since then. If there was a link to the man who ordered the hit in his effects two years ago, it’s still there. We need to find it.”
Suddenly realizing what he wanted to do, Lindsay whirled from the window and shook her head emphatically. “No. Absolutely not. My mother is well now. Dredging it all up again could—”
“Don’t you want to know?”
“Of course I want to know!” she shot back, her tears close now. “But she’s already had one heart attack. She was lucky that it was mild, but I won’t put her at risk, even on the outside chance that you’re right about this. Just—just stay out of it. Ricky is still dead, and nothing has changed. If the police aren’t interested in reopening the case, let it go. And who says this Decker kid even knew what he was talking about anyway? Ike, you know what happened the last time you decided to do someone else’s job.”
It was a low blow, but he was so set on getting what he wanted, he seemed impervious to it. “Yes, I do. And if I need a reminder, I get one every time I walk into my apartment and you’re not there.”
Before Lindsay could reply, Ike released a ragged blast of air, ambled a few steps away, then came back to her. His gaze passed over her T-shirt and cutoffs again, then returned to her face, his eyes betraying the gentler emotions he kept hidden from the dark and dangerous people he did business with.
“I failed Ricky,” he said quietly. “I tried from the time we met to straighten him out, and I couldn’t do it. If by returning him to jail, I delivered him to a killer, I need to know, and the person behind it has to pay.” He paused. “Talk to your mother. Ask her if I can look through his things. I swear I’ll leave everything exactly as I found it.”
God, he made her ache. “How can you ask me to do this? You know how she feels. She’s never gotten past the sight of you handcuffing Ricky in her backyard.”
“I tried talking first. Your mother knows that. And so do you.”
But when talking hadn’t worked, her mother had expected Ike to look the other way. She hadn’t cared about losing the bail money— She’d expected him to let his brother-in-law go.
“Lindsay, he was twenty-three years old. It was time for him to grow up and take some responsibility for the lousy choices he’d made—not run to his mother like he always did, hitting her up for traveling money—and worse, making her an accessory to a crime. Skipping out on a drug possession charge was just plain stupid. Ricky knew the narc who nailed him was interested in bigger fish—and the narc knew Rick had some useful information. It was a foregone conclusion that they’d offer him a deal. He wasn’t going to spend any time in jail.”
“Exactly,” she said, leveling her gaze on him. “Just like the dead skip from yesterday.”
For a moment, Ike didn’t move a muscle, guilt and bad memories overtaking him again. As always, Lindsay’s words cut to the bone. Then he nodded slowly. “At least think about it.” If he knew anything about her at all, he knew they’d taken this discussion as far as they could tonight. “If you change your mind, I’ll be at the Drifter.”
Ike saw her eyes grow wary and uncertain. “You’re staying in town? It’s only a forty-five minute drive back to Portland.”
“Just overnight.” He hesitated, wondering if he should push for what he wanted using a different approach, then did. “I hoped you might want some justice for your brother so I booked a room with the intention of looking through his things in the morning.” He ascended the landing steps. “Apparently, I was wrong.”
Lindsay stormed up the steps after him. “Don’t you dare dump this on me! My refusal has nothing to do with my lack of caring, and you know it. So stop trying to manipulate me. I won’t put my mother at risk.”
“She can stand right there while I search.”
“And have all her pain dredged up again? No.”
“All right. I’ll find another way to get it done.”
Furious, Ike started to leave, then stopped. He was entitled to his bitterness, but Lindsay had adored her brother from infancy, no matter what kind of trouble he’d dragged home, and she was hurting now—because of him. He couldn’t leave her like this.
“I smelled varnish when I came in,” he said quietly. “I guess you’ve started another project.”
Even during their short time together, she’d always been working on something. If it hadn’t been refinishing a table or chest of drawers, it had been creating beautiful pinecone wreaths for Christmas gifts. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” she’d laughed a million years ago, and tugging her into his arms, he’d chuckled that there were at least a dozen other uses for idle hands.
She took a deep breath, appearing to have noticed his change in demeanor. “I got a good price on the house because there was a lot to do. I’m refinishing the original woodwork—tackling one room at a time to keep my sanity. I have an enclosed back porch that works pretty well as a work space.”
“It’s a big house.”
Nodding, she sent him a wan smile, making Ike think that she, too, wanted to end the night on a decent note. “I’ll be on Social Security before I’m through, but it’ll be worth it.”
“Nah,” he answered, feeling a funny clutching in his chest. “It’s only June. You’ll have everything shipshape before Christmas so you can bake cookies and deck the halls and do all that other stuff you and your mom get involved in during the holidays.”
“Maybe so,” she murmured.
Ike could tell that she, too, was remembering that their one-and-only Christmas together had been cozy and warm, and Ike could almost smell the homey fragrances of pine boughs and cookies baking in the oven. Then the emotional silence stretched out too long, and things got awkward.
“Better leave a window open tonight,” he said gruffly as he stepped onto the porch. “You shouldn’t be breathing in those fumes.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Of course she would, he thought as she followed him out, the screen door creaking shut behind them. She was a paramedic. She knew the dangers better than most people did.
As he moved to the top of the steps, Ike scanned her peaceful neighborhood. Night was on its way. The air had cooled a little, and the crickets were already ringing out a cadence, the vast, open sky filling with stars. Some distance away, the turret atop the Spindrift light began to glow and turn.
He met her soft green eyes again, and damn if that clutching in his chest didn’t come back. “If you change your mind—”
“I won’t. I’m all she has left. Dad’s gone. Ricky’s gone. I can’t let her think—”
“What? That you’ve thrown in with the enemy again?”
“Ike, that’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not,” he replied grimly. “It never was.” Then without looking back, he descended the stairs, crossed her lawn to the driveway and climbed into his SUV.
Lindsay watched until his taillights disappeared and he headed toward town. Then, feeling her heart sink and her tears begin to flow, she went back inside.
Eighteen months. Heaven help her, she’d thought she was cured, settled, finally free of those clawing regrets and the blame she’d never wanted to place on him, but had—and still did. She couldn’t help herself. Love between a man and woman was a powerful thing, but it didn’t change the fact that he’d ignored all the pleading and warnings and now her brother was dead.
Once again, memories rushed forward, poignant then wonderful, then terrible and bittersweet. And though she tried her best to push those images aside, they just kept coming. But every warm, laughing, touching scene with Ike was always superimposed over Ricky’s trapped expression the day Ike took him away. And it hurt. Heaven help her, it hurt so much.
Thoroughly frustrated with herself for backsliding, Lindsay wiped her tears and strode quickly into the hallway off her living room, through her kitchen and to her back porch. There was work to be done, and she would do it. But within minutes, she was sealing the varnish can, cleaning her paintbrush in the mudroom and sobbing so hard she could barely see what she was doing.
Damn him. How could she let him do this to her? How could she long for his arms and his warmth so desperately, and at the same time, resent him for bringing back memories she didn’t want to face? If he’d just let Tank take Ricky in, if he’d just listened to her, and respected that family was a tender, fragile thing, maybe she’d be varnishing woodwork for their home, not hers. Maybe Ricky would have arrived at the jail hours later, and the man who’d taken his life would already have been processed and sent to another facility.
Except…now Ike believed that Ricky’s murder wasn’t a random killing. He believed her brother’s death was inevitable.
Suddenly something Ike had said came back to her, and Lindsay’s thoughts sped off in a new direction. He’d said he’d find another way to accomplish his search. What had he meant by that? Would he go to her mother on his own? Get her all churned up again, too? More than he had already?
That thought sparked a related one and Lindsay’s heart shot into her throat. Dropping the brush in the sink and wiping her hands on the front of her shorts, she rushed to her empty dining room where her computer was set up. Her mother hadn’t called to warn her that Ike was on the way—and she would have phoned if she was able.
Seconds later, she sighed in relief when she heard the monotonous beeping coming from the phone on the hutch and saw the receiver tilted in the cradle. Earlier, a telemarketer had called, and in her eagerness to get back to work, she’d been careless hanging it up.
She’d scarcely bumped the receiver back into position, when the phone shrilled. Wiping her eyes again, then noisily clearing the tears from her throat, she picked it up and said hello.
Arlene Hollis’s usually loving voice was irritated when she replied, but Lindsay was still glad to hear it because she knew her mother wasn’t ill.
“Lindsay?”
“Yes, Mom, it’s me.”
“Oh. You sound funny.” Suddenly, concern entered her voice and she murmured, “Honey, are you crying?”
Holding back a sigh, Lindsay sent her gaze skyward and prayed for help from above. She didn’t want to get into any of this with her mother. Not tonight. Not anytime. “I’m fine, Mom.”
“I hope so. Because I’ve been speed-dialing you for the past fifteen minutes, and all I’ve been getting is a busy signal.”
“I’m sorry. My phone was off the hook. I just now hung it back up.”
A heavy silence stretched between them, then continued for so long, Lindsay wondered what was going on. She got her answer when her mother spoke again in a suspicious, far-from-gracious tone.
“Why was your phone off the hook?” she asked. “And whose idea was that?”
Chapter 2
Ike walked in the darkness to his courtyard room, and in the glow of a moth-covered porch light, let himself in. After clicking on the lamps, he shut the door and tossed his duffel on a nearby chair.
His head was pounding like a freaking kettledrum. Digging some aspirin from his pack, he strode into the tiny bathroom for water to wash them down, bending to drink directly from the tap. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Now he had other images banging around in his head—not just Ricky and a boatload of hope and guilt. Now…now she was there, and she was there with a vengeance, strangling him with memories that were best shoved aside.
Dammit, he should have phoned her instead of driving up here. Even if she’d wanted to, she wouldn’t have hung up. She had too much class for that. But the little pot-stirring troublemaker in his head had insisted that his chances for success would be better eye-to-eye, and idiot that he was, he’d listened.
Ike yanked off his cowboy boots and let them clunk to the floor, then stripped off his shirt, jeans and socks and added them to the pile. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of himself in the mirror, and he stilled. He took a tentative step closer and stared gravely at his reflection.
Did he look older than his thirty-six years? Or just…grimmer? His hair was still dark brown—no gray ones yet—and the sun creases beside his eyes were barely noticeable in his tanned face.
Still, he hadn’t had a decent haircut in months, his beard stubble had reappeared and his dark eyes looked as haunted as some of the skips he picked up. Add the bumpy scar on his hip from an old bullet wound, he decided sarcastically, and he made one hell of an appealing package.
So why did he even give a damn how he looked tonight?
You know the answer to that one, hotshot.
Ike yanked his gaze from the mirror, bristling defensively and telling himself that he didn’t give a damn. He hadn’t driven up here to impress her. His “beauty” regimen was as simple as it got. No frills, no thrills. He showered, shaved and wore clean socks. That was it. Anyone who expected more could stuff it.
Cursing beneath his breath, he shed his underwear, then turned on the shower spray and snatched up the soap and tiny bottle of shampoo that housekeeping had placed on the vanity.
He was grateful for the amenities. He hadn’t packed much more than a change of clothes, his laptop, files and a razor, and the last thing he wanted to do was shop for the things he’d left behind.
Stepping inside the shower, he yanked the curtain closed, shut his eyes and let the water beat his face and shoulders. Let it pound his chest. These days he was thankful for the little things.
Because if there was one thing he’d learned in the last two years, it was that the big things—the important things—had gotten away from him.
Lindsay had barely said goodbye to her mother and returned to the mudroom to finish cleaning her paintbrush when the phone rang again. She sighed. She couldn’t take another bitter dissertation on the evils of Ike Walker, not tonight. Not with Ike’s troubling request still nagging at her. Not with her heavy heart still aching after seeing him again.
Quickly wiping her hands on a paper towel, she returned to the dining room. It was a relief when she checked the phone’s caller ID window and saw a local, though unfamiliar number. After her mother’s tirade, even another phone solicitor would be a welcome break tonight.
But it wasn’t a telemarketer looking to sell her more magazines.
John Fielding’s mellow voice had a smile in it when he identified himself. The bookstore’s courtly new owner was a recent arrival from Boothbay, and a decade older than Lindsay’s thirty-two years. When she’d met him at his shop’s grand reopening, she’d liked him on the spot, and it must have been mutual because he’d asked her out the very next day. She’d had her first date with him last weekend when they’d driven to Portland for dinner and the theater, then afterward, lingered over lattes and biscotti at a cute little coffee shop to discuss their love of books.
“Hello, John,” she said, glad for a reminder that she was making some changes in her pitifully out-of-balance life. Since she and Ike had parted, she’d filled her days with work, time with her mother and the occasional outing with friends. “How are you?”
“I’m well, thanks,” he said, a little hesitantly. “But forgive me, you sound tired. I hope I’m not calling too late.”
It was barely eight-fifteen. Lindsay let his comment about fatigue slide, though she did feel drained—and she knew exactly who to blame for the condition. “Of course it’s not too late. What’s up?”
“Well,” he said, happily warming to his topic, “last week you mentioned that you’d scheduled some vacation time to work on your home. I was hoping you’d set aside one of those days for me. Even a few hours would be wonderful.”
Lindsay waited through his chuckle.
“I don’t mean to be unkind,” he went on, “but my predecessor’s tastes were a bit pedestrian. How would you like to help me plan a store layout with a little more panache? Possibly help me move some books around and collaborate on a window display? It would give us time to get better acquainted, and later, I’d be delighted to take you to dinner at any place you name.”
“Sure,” she replied, wishing the prospect excited her more—and knowing where to place the blame for that, too. “When would you like to do it? I work tomorrow—Friday—then I’m free for two weeks.”
“A week from Sunday? I’m anxious to begin, but I’d rather not be all torn up during the week, especially since I just opened, and I’m closed on Sundays anyhow. Besides, waiting would give me time to make some of the preliminary moves. Would that work for you?”
Lindsay mustered some enthusiasm for him. “Next Sunday will be fine. By then, I’ll probably be glad to leave the sandpaper and varnish behind.”
But as she hung up a few minutes later, a hollow spot opened in her chest as she recalled something Ike had said when they’d just begun dating…when their hormones were in overdrive and she’d felt her pulse race just hearing his voice. When she’d asked him what was up, Ike had answered very differently.
“What’s up?” he’d murmured, making her knees go weak and her tummy float. “My temperature, thinking about you. When can I see you again?”
Sighing, determined to put Ike and the evening’s events out of her mind, Lindsay prepared to leave the room. Then her gaze caught the family photo of herself, Ricky and their mother atop her computer hutch. It had been taken two years after her father’s death, when she was sixteen and Ricky was eleven. Her heart lurched painfully as she reached for the beloved photograph.
What a darling little boy he’d been—her parents’ miracle child after doctors had informed her mom and dad that there would be no more babies. Then Ricky had shown up, all pink and wrinkled, and the three of them had showered him with love—especially Lindsay. She was his big sister, his doting protector. Then one afternoon as her dad was driving Ricky to a Little League game, a drunk driver hit their car head-on, and in an instant, Richard Hollis was gone. Her father’s death had devastated the whole family, especially nine-year-old Ricky, who was left with a pile of survivor’s guilt. After that, he’d struggled to find his place in the world.
Lindsay stroked her baby brother’s face through the glass, tears filling her eyes again, feeling the pain and helplessness again. Feeling the big-sisterly guilt. She’d failed Ricky, too. She’d promised to take care of him, and she hadn’t.
Releasing a trembling breath, she replaced the photograph and wiped her eyes before the tears could gain a foothold. Ike was right. They needed to know if Ricky’s death was connected to yesterday’s shooting. They needed to know if it was a random act of violence, or a cold, calculated murder.
Ten minutes later, she’d changed into faded jeans and a navy sweatshirt, and was striding down the dark, sloping road toward the harbor. Krafty Millie’s Café came into view first, the white-sided building brightly lit. Music and chatter filtered into the night as patrons left through the plate glass door and walked to their cars…and next door, sharing the same spacious parking lot, The Spindrifter Motel’s flashing neon sign said they had a vacancy.
Lindsay’s heartbeat quickened. Ike’s black Explorer was parked outside a room where light seeped under the closed drapes on the wide window, and a porch light attracted a squadron of moths. It was the only room near his SUV that appeared to be occupied.
Inhaling deeply, she crossed the gritty asphalt lot, walked up to the door and shooed away a few little fliers.
Suddenly it flew open, and she was tugged, gasping, inside.
“Sorry if I startled you,” Ike grumbled, quickly shutting the door and flicking the wall switch beside it. “I heard you walk up, and I’d rather the moths found another place to crash for the night. I should’ve turned off the porch light earlier.”
“No problem,” she said shakily. Her hand tingled from his touch, disturbing little sparks zipping up her arm. That tingling quickly moved to other places when she focused on his face and realized he’d just showered. His hair was wet, and the fresh hunter-green shirt he’d pulled on hung open, showing a tapering mat of chest hair. For a second her gaze followed that soft hairy trail downward where it disappeared behind the brass button on his jeans, then she jerked her attention back up to his face.
A heady awareness flowed between them, and in that moment of silent appraisal, Lindsay knew she shouldn’t have come. The earthy chemistry they’d never been able to ignore was revving up again, bumping her nerve endings. Giving her tightening stomach ideas. And the close, heavy humidity from his shower wasn’t helping.
She glanced away as he buttoned his shirt, taking in the generic decor, flickering television screen and the nautical prints on the walls.
“I hope you’re here to say you’ve changed your mind,” Ike said. There was a white towel slung over his shoulder. Taking it off, he tossed it on the back of the only chair in the room. The seat held his duffel bag, a bulging file folder and the black valise containing his laptop, one of the tools of the trade that was always at his fingertips.
On the rare occasions that he wasn’t chasing a bail jumper or doing legwork for a Portland private investigator, he was tracing skips online. He’d once joked that he could work naked from their bed. All he needed was a phone and an Internet connection.
“I’m not happy about it,” Lindsay replied, “but yes, I’ve changed my mind. You were right. If someone arranged for Ricky’s death, that person has to pay.”
She met his brown eyes and felt the old pull, the old magnetism, the overwhelming need to step into his arms. But those days were over. She cleared her throat. “None of this is going to be easy. My mother’s still bitter.”
“That was obvious when I saw her tonight.” Ike walked to the complimentary coffeemaker on the dresser and picked through the plastic container filled with tea bags and packets. “Actually, I’m amazed that she didn’t phone to let you know I was on my way.” He glanced back at her. “Or did she reach you?”
There wasn’t much point in telling him about the phone being off the hook. That wasn’t important now. “I spoke to her after you left.”
“Did you get her consent for the search?”
“No, but I asked her to dinner tomorrow night. I’ll bring it up then.”
“Lindsay, the longer we wait—”
“I can’t just drop this in her lap, Ike.”
He seemed to think about that for a moment, then replied soberly, “You’re right. Besides, she wouldn’t have been very receptive tonight.”
Or any night, Lindsay thought, feeling a stab of regret. Not if the night had anything to do with Ike. Once her mom had liked him—rather, she’d liked him as much as she liked anyone who came between her and her children, which wasn’t saying a lot. Since her dad’s fatal accident, her mother had become clinging and needy. Though Arlene Hollis had owned a successful seamstress business, she’d never worked outside their home, so she’d never cultivated a lot of friends. Her life had always revolved around her family. Now their numbers had shrunk to two, and with Ricky’s passing, the survivor’s guilt he’d carried had landed squarely on Lindsay’s shoulders.
Meeting her gaze again, Ike picked up the carafe and nodded toward the two beds. “Have a seat. I was about to make coffee. Housekeeping left two cups.”
Not a chance. Not the way her nerve endings vibrated every time the air shifted. She wouldn’t drink his coffee and she wouldn’t sit on either of his beds. Just looking at them in the lamplight brought back images of other rooms, other beds. And sitting was only one bad choice away from lying down.
She was about to refuse when his cell phone rang.
With a muttered, “Just a second,” Ike picked it off the nightstand, checked the caller ID window, then frowned and turned away. “Hi Brandy, how’s it going?”
Lindsay heard Brandy Maitlin’s loud, laughing reply over the low drone of the all-news channel and was instantly on edge. “It’s going, but it’s not going as smoothly without my number-one hunter. I need you, gorgeous.”
With a furtive glance at Lindsay, Ike inched his thumb up to a side key on his phone, then lowered the volume and ambled a few steps away before he continued. “Sorry, I’m not available right now. With everything else I’m juggling, I don’t have time.”
He listened for a while, then grinned and returned in an amused voice, “Nope, no matter how much sugar’s on the table. I’m up to my ears in skips and legwork for Larry, and I just picked up another project. Give Tank a call.”
A sudden rush of jealousy clicked in, and Lindsay walked to him, took the carafe from his hand, then stepped into his bathroom to fill it from the sink. Their past rose up to greet her again as she turned on the tap.
She hadn’t been around Brandy often, but during their flash-fire courtship and six-month marriage, she’d had several opportunities to see Brandy in action around Ike. The woman wanted him, and she wanted him badly. But there’d been no jealousy in Lindsay then because she’d known Ike loved her. She’d also known that Ike never saw Brandy as anything but the head of Maitlin Bail Bonds. At least, not then, she thought, feeling a pinch again. But eighteen months was a long time for a man like Ike to be without a woman…and beautiful Brandy with the dark, flashing eyes had teased that she “needed her gorgeous hunter.” Take away the playful tone and the words still worked.
Suddenly Lindsay was remembering the two months of arguments and accusations that had preceded their divorce…and wondering if Brandy had been there to soothe Ike’s anger and frustration.
Lindsay yanked herself back to the present as the water in the glass pot gushed over the sides and into the sink. Quickly, she turned off the spigot and poured out some of the water, then grabbed a clean hand towel from the rack to dry the carafe.
When she turned around, Ike was standing in the doorway.
Feeling a flush creep into her cheeks, she walked forward, forcing him to get out of her way. She dumped the packet of coffee he’d set aside into the coffeemaker, added water to the reservoir, then clicked on the unit and faced him.
“What did Brandy want?” Surprisingly, she didn’t feel a bit uncomfortable asking the question.
“She needed someone to go after a skip. I told her to call someone else—that I need time for another project.”
“Did you tell her what the project is?”
“Not yet.”
“But you will?”
“Probably. There are no secrets between us.”
“Are you sleeping with her?”
That brought the conversational volley to an abrupt halt. Beneath her calm tone and delivery, Lindsay’s stomach shook. As for Ike, she couldn’t read what was going on inside his head.
“And if I am?” he asked after a moment.
“If you are,” she said lifting her chin, “more power to you. She’s beautiful, and you’re both in the same business. I’m sure you never run out of fascinating things to talk about.”
A flash of annoyance tumbled through his gaze and his voice hardened. “Know what? Maybe we should have our coffee next door at the café. Millie’s open until eleven tonight. Summer hours.”
Lindsay shook her head. She didn’t need coffee. The images her mind was supplying were already burning a hole in her stomach. Images of Ike and his needy lady boss engaged in less-than-businesslike activities.
“No thanks,” she answered crisply, moving toward the door. “I’ve said what I came to say.”
“Some things never change, do they?” he challenged. “Whenever things get a little sticky between us, you run the other way. God forbid you should hang around and talk things out. Somewhere, your mother’s applauding.”
She turned around swiftly. “You know, I wondered how long it would be before you started in on her again.” She grabbed the doorknob. “I’m leaving.”
“Go ahead, you’re good at it.”
That stopped her dead. Eyes filling with tears, Lindsay faced him again. He’d gone too far. His troubled expression told her that he knew it, too.
“Look…” he said through a sigh. “Let’s just go over to the café and talk—get a piece of Millie’s coconut cream pie to go with the coffee.”
But coffee and dessert wouldn’t change anything. There was too much baggage and too many harsh words between them. They’d only end up arguing there, too, and Millie’s customers didn’t need a floor show. Halfway through their pie, Ike would remind her that she’d initiated divorce proceedings, she’d remind him that he’d said the D word first, and they would end up not speaking. That couldn’t happen. They had to work together now, for all of their sakes. “I can’t, Ike.”
“Why not?”
For some perverse reason, she wanted him to know that another man valued her. Maybe because he’d hinted that he and Brandy had a relationship, then left her twisting in the wind without confirming or denying it. But again, she couldn’t imagine him staying celibate for long, even though she had. When they were together, they’d been wild in bed. Wild and wonderful and happy and loving and…
“Because tongues wag at the slightest hint of impropriety in this town,” she replied before the memories could get to her again. “And I’m seeing someone now.”
He didn’t say a word, and she went on. “John’s the new owner of the bookstore—and whether it’s ten in the morning or ten at night, the rumor mills grind away. I don’t see any reason to make him uneasy.”
“Whatever.”
It wasn’t what she expected, and his cavalier reply hit hard.
Then he poured himself a cup of coffee, replaced the carafe and met her eyes again. “So do you want a cup here in Hernando’s Hideaway where no one can see you, or are you really taking off?”
She swallowed. “No, I need to go home and get some sleep. I work the early shift tomorrow.”
“Fine. Let me know what your mother says.”
“I will.”
Lindsay stepped into the cool night, relieved to get out of there, glad for the air on her face. Several doors down, a chattering family carried bags and suitcases into a room where the porch light was shining. A brand-new bunch of moths had homed in on it and were now fluttering helplessly, lured by the pretty glow, and powerless to move away.
She knew exactly how they felt.
“Good night, Ike.”
“’Night. Be careful walking home.”
“This is Spindrift,” she replied soberly. “Nothing bad ever happens around here.”
Lindsay heard the door close behind her. Then she crossed the parking lot and headed for the steep, shadowy walk leading toward the road, Ike’s casual “Whatever” hurting all over again.
So much for letting him know that she was moving on with her life. He hadn’t given a damn that she was seeing John Fielding.
He’d wanted to touch her, Ike thought twenty minutes later, grinding his molars as he let himself back inside his motel room. There, he’d admitted it. He dropped his cell phone and take-out bag on the dresser, along with a metal room key that pinged across the wooden surface.
He couldn’t have cared less if a few moths flew inside. He just wanted to touch her, link with her for a second to see if the old feeling was still there—that knock-the-breath-out-of-you feeling of getting whacked in the chest with a bowling ball.
It was. But he was through shoving his heart through a Cuisinart for her.
Carrying his food to the nearest bed, he kicked off his boots, plumped the pillows against the headboard, then settled back to fish out the first of three cheeseburgers that Millie Kraft had grilled for him. He knew it had killed her not to ask if his reappearance in town had anything to do with Lindsay. But he hadn’t volunteered any information and being the sweet old gal that she was, Millie had simply let the hope in her eyes show and kept mum.
Taking a bite, Ike snagged the remote control on the nightstand and flicked through the channels until he came to a movie he’d seen a few times—one that wouldn’t require much concentration. Lindsay had just about all the attention he was capable of focusing right now.
She was seeing someone. And he hadn’t even looked at another woman that way since they’d yelled their last goodbyes. Hadn’t even wanted to.
He took another bite, chewed awhile, decided it tasted like sand, and dropped the burger back in the bag. Nothing—not food, not coffee, not the movie on the tube—could wipe away the disturbing pictures cluttering his mind.
Getting up, he jammed his food into the tiny wastebasket, then grabbed his cell phone and punched in the number for Tank Exton’s fancy gym and spa outside of Portland. He needed to focus on the job—grill Tank about anything else the dead skip had said when he was taking him in. He needed to focus on Ricky Hollis’s hidden killer.
Not the beautiful woman who’d fallen in step behind his father and walked out of his life again.
The next morning at six-thirty, Lindsay squared her shoulders, drew a breath, then walked inside Krafty Millie’s Café. She knew Ike’s habits, and as she’d expected, he was having coffee at the counter, along with a few other early birds. He’d always liked diners and little eateries that served up home cooking and freshly baked pies. Five-star restaurants and French cuisine were way at the bottom of his priority list.
Smiling brightly, Millie Kraft waved from behind the cash register where she was handing change to a customer. “’Morning, Lindsay!” she called over the sporadic conversation and piped-in Sinatra. “What brings you in at the crack of dawn?”
Wonderful, Lindsay thought smiling back at the graying, curly-haired elf in the black-and-white uniform. Let him know right away that it’s unusual for her to be here at this hour. “Just getting an early start on the day,” she replied, intercepting a curious look from Ike.
Millie glanced at Ike, back at her, then grinned in delight. “Tea with lemon this morning, honey?”
“Yes, thanks.” She watched Ike’s gaze slip briefly over her navy slacks, white shirt and navy Windbreaker before meeting her eyes again. Then, nodding for him to join her, she took a seat in the red vinyl booth closest to the door.
Slowly, Ike dragged himself away from the counter, sidestepped a few tables and ambled across the black-and-white tile floor, his coffee cup in his hand. He was wearing jeans and boots again today, as well as the hunter-green shirt he’d donned after his shower last night. It was open at the throat, and his long sleeves were rolled back over his tanned, muscular forearms.
He folded his length into the seat across from her, but waited to speak until Millie had delivered her tea, sent the two of them a positively beaming look, then left. Lindsay had to smile inside. Millie was a hopeless romantic, and was probably counting the hours until she could ask her if a reconciliation was in the works. She’d be disappointed in Lindsay’s answer.
“Apparently, you’re no longer concerned about wagging tongues,” he drawled finally.
“Don’t be smug. I just need to know how to reach you in case my mother agrees.”
“You could’ve called my room at the motel for that information.”
“And you could have phoned me yesterday with your request instead of driving forty-five minutes out of your way.”
His face turned to stone. “That was a courtesy. I didn’t think you needed to hear lousy news on the telephone.”
Ike drank some coffee as he appraised her hairstyle over the rim of his cup. Then he set his mug on the table and dug his wallet from his hip pocket.
Lindsay waited for a comment. She’d twirled her hair into a soft bun and pulled a few tendrils loose around her face this morning—an easy style on a workday. But Ike had always preferred it down.
He didn’t mention her hair. Instead, he removed a business card from his wallet and handed it over. “Still working with Sam Cooper?” he asked.
“Five days a week.” She scanned the card. His home phone wasn’t listed for obvious reasons, but his business and cellular numbers were, and he was listed as an “associate” of Maitlin Bail Bonds, even though he free-lanced much of the time. She knew he’d never been a fan of business cards—felt they were unnecessary in his line of work. But Brandy had insisted that all of her hunters carry them—free advertising in case they ran into someone who needed a bail bondsman.
“Sam and Jennie still together?” Ike asked casually. She and Ike had had dinner and babysat for the Coopers on several occasions before the divorce. He’d liked them and their kids a lot.
Lindsay tucked his card into the pocket of her Windbreaker and nodded. “Some marriages work out.”
Ike met her eyes. “And some don’t.”
Like a happy little moth to a porch light, Millie came fluttering by with a coffeepot, still grinning and obviously hoping for a piece of good news. They’d camped out in her back booth in those short weeks before they’d decided to elope, talking, laughing, feeling the pull to touch, and trying to keep their hands to themselves. And Millie had taken it all in with grandmotherly glee.
“You folks want your drinks warmed up?”
Lindsay smiled up at her. “Thanks, Millie, but I have to leave soon.” Actually, she hadn’t even touched her tea. “Sam’ll think I deserted him.”
“Ike?” the proprietress asked hopefully.
“None for me, either. I have a full day ahead, too.”
Her smile turned to concern. “Chasing another bad guy?”
“The worst.”
“Then if you ask me, you need to get into another line of work,” she scolded. “You be careful.”
“I will, Millie. Thanks.”
When she’d gone again, Ike pulled a five from his wallet and laid it on the table.
Lindsay sent him a raised eyebrow. “Big tip.”
“No, two drinks and a tip.”
She shook her head. “Uh-uh.” Pushing to her feet, she took two singles from the pocket of her Windbreaker and dropped them on the table as Ike stood, too. “I pay my own way.
“Not when you’re with me.”
“I’m not with you.”
Ike scooped up her money, then slowly closed the distance between them. Lindsay’s pulse took off. Then with his patient gaze pinned to hers, he folded the bills and tucked them back into her pocket. Except he didn’t remove his hand.
“Save your money for lunch,” he murmured. “Or buy Sam some French fries.”
She felt his warm hand through her Windbreaker, felt it through her slacks…felt it all the way to her skin. The full force of his sexuality hit her squarely in the libido, and suddenly Lindsay resented his easy familiarity. He knew what his touch could do.
Shoving his hand away, she snatched the bills from her pocket and tossed them back on the table. “Sam doesn’t eat French fries anymore,” she said, letting him know he wasn’t as familiar with her or her life as he thought he was. “Triple bypass last fall.” Then, still battling that nervous clutching in her stomach, she backed away. “I’ll contact you after I talk with my mother.”
Three hours later, she and Sam Cooper were disinfecting the ambulance after transporting a man with a raging fever to the hospital when the phone in the ambulance bay rang. Sam tossed his sponge into the bucket and climbed out to answer it.
“It’s for you,” her crew-cut-wearing partner said when he returned.
“Who is it?”
Sam sent her a teasing look and a waggle of black brows. “Some guy, and he’s really hot to speak to you.”
Lindsay felt a quick flush as she scurried out and brushed past him. Behind her, Sam began to chuckle.
“So that’s what’s going on this morning. Maybe this call will improve your mood a bit, Crabby.”
“I’m not crabby,” she grumbled over her shoulder, “I’m just…thoughtful.”
“Then you’re thinking about the wrong stuff,” he called back.
But the voice on the phone didn’t belong to the man whose compelling brown eyes and rugged good looks had haunted her all morning. John Fielding wanted her to have dinner with him that night.
Lindsay rubbed the tension over her eyes. She hadn’t slept well, and Sam was right. She hadn’t smiled much today.
Thanks a lot, Ike.
“I’m sorry, John, but I’ve already made plans for this evening.” Although, John would be a lot easier to deal with than her mother was going to be. “Let’s just see each other next Saturday when I come by to help out at the bookstore.”
“Sure,” he replied, sounding slightly put off. “But I believe we agreed to meet on Sunday.”
Lindsay squeezed her eyes shut and grimaced. “Of course we did. Forgive me. It’s been a busy morning, and I’m a little distracted. When it gets closer, let me know what time is good for you, and I’ll see you then.”
“Great. I’m looking forward to it.”
When she’d said goodbye and replaced the wall phone’s receiver, Lindsay stared bleakly into space, her surroundings blurring. Ike was ruining her life. Last week, she’d enjoyed John’s company. He was a charming man, an interesting conversationalist, and seemed well versed on a variety of subjects.
But this week he felt like an obligation.
Chapter 3
Lindsay rose to clear away their dinner plates, biting her tongue for what seemed like the hundredth time. Since her dining room still wasn’t usable, she’d cut fresh French and white lilacs from the bushes out back, then arranged them in a glass vase with some trailing ivies and centered them on her kitchen table. Combined with a lacy white tablecloth and the white china she rarely used, they lent a pretty touch of grace to her remodeled oak, peach and mint kitchen.
She’d also popped in an instrumental CD her mom liked, and prepared orange-glazed chicken, baked potatoes and steamed broccoli with her mother’s health and preferences in mind. Unfortunately, at the moment none of it seemed to impress Arlene Hollis. The temperature in Lindsay’s kitchen had dropped ten degrees the instant she’d mentioned Ike’s name.
“Unbelievable,” Arlene continued angrily. “He’s in town less than twenty-four hours, and suddenly the clock’s turned back and you’re giving him whatever he wants, no matter how I feel about it.”
“Mother,” Lindsay replied calmly, “I’m not giving him anything, and I do care how you feel. He’s concerned that there might be a connection, and he simply asked me to speak to you about—”
“—desecrating your brother’s room and his memory. I heard you the first time. And the reason that man is concerned is he’s looking for someone else to shoulder his guilt.”
Arlene tore the napkin from her lap, dropped it beside her teacup and pushed to her feet. “Ricky told him that something bad would happen if he didn’t get out of town. And what did Ike do? He ignored your brother. He was more interested in his recovery fee than the pleas of a young boy who’d made an unfortunate mista—”
Tears choked off the rest of her sentence, and jumping up, Lindsay went to her petite mother’s side. There was no point in repeating that Ike hadn’t wanted a fee, or reminding her pretty blond mom that for most of his life, Ricky had cried wolf and blown his troubles and needs enormously out of proportion. Her mother was in no mood to listen.
Smoothing a hand over the shoulder of her mother’s pale pink sweater, Lindsay looked down into her hazel eyes. Eyes like Ricky’s. “Mom, please,” she said quietly, sincerely. “Calm down. It was a request, not a demand. If you feel that strongly about it, I’ll tell Ike that it’s not going to happen.”
Arlene blinked back her tears. “But you think it’s necessary.”
“Yes, I do. If someone deliberately—”
“The answer is no,” Arlene said more forcefully. “I don’t want that man in my home—not ever again. And mark my words, Lindsay, if you let him back in your life, he’ll destroy you all over again.”
Lindsay sighed at the ceiling, unable to hold back her frustration any longer. “Mom, neither of us wants to get involved again. We have separate lives now. It’s over. We’ve both moved on. In fact, we wouldn’t even be speaking if it wasn’t for yesterday’s shooting.”
Arlene’s tight expression never changed. She glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s getting late. I should be leaving.”
“It’s only seven o’clock. Stay for dessert. I made a nice fruit salad, and I picked up a quart of frozen peach yogurt.”
“I can’t,” she said, pushing away then moving into the living room where she’d left her purse and keys. “I told you earlier that your aunt Cheryl would be calling, and I don’t want to keep her waiting. It’s long distance to Bangor.”
Which made no sense at all, but Lindsay wouldn’t point that out or press for a better excuse. Her mother was obviously determined to leave and she wouldn’t stop her.
“Are you all right?” she asked when she’d walked her to the driveway where Arlene’s blue Toyota was parked.
“I’m fine,” she replied stiffly. “Rather, I will be as soon as that man goes back to Portland and leaves us alone.” After hugging Lindsay without warmth, she slid behind the wheel and smoothed her short salon cut before starting her car.
Then, abruptly, she turned off the ignition and got back out, tears rimming her hazel eyes again and a wealth of love in her voice. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” she murmured, embracing Lindsay again. “I shouldn’t have gotten so upset, especially after you made such a lovely dinner. Maybe we can have some of that peach yogurt another time soon.”
“Of course we can,” Lindsay replied, returning her hug.
Easing back, Arlene looked into Lindsay’s eyes again, her gaze troubled. “In my defense, I… Well, you know how much I miss your dad and brother. I—I just don’t want to lose you, too. Not again. And I’m afraid that could happen if you let him back into your life. He’s not good for you, sweetheart.”
Lindsay felt a guilty pang, even though she recognized her mother’s maneuverings. There’d been a tug-of-war for her affections after Ricky’s death, and for a while, her emotional mother had believed she was on the losing side. She’d never understood that they’d all lost in the terrible days that followed her brother’s passing.
“You’re not going to lose me,” Lindsay said gently. “We’re family, and I love you. But will you do something for me?”
“Anything, honey.”
“Think about what we discussed. Mom, this could be so important.”
For an instant, her mother’s gaze hardened again. Then she nodded, gave Lindsay another warm hug and drove off.
Sighing, Lindsay reentered her home and headed for the telephone on her computer hutch. Ike would be disappointed, just as she was. But that’s the way it had to be—for now, at least. They just had to hope that after her mother had given the search some thought, she’d see the need for justice and change her mind.
Taking his business card from the top of the hutch, Lindsay dialed Ike’s cell phone, feeling that emptiness in her chest again. It occurred to her that if she’d told her mom how totally disinterested Ike had been when she’d mentioned dating John Fielding, her mother wouldn’t have wasted a second worrying.
In a moment, his deep, recorded baritone came on. “This is Ike. Apparently, I’m out of range right now because this thing’s always turned on. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
“Hi, it’s me,” she replied soberly. “I’m just calling to tell you that it didn’t go well with my mother. I’ll talk to her again tomorrow—Saturday—after she’s had some time to think about it, then I’ll contact you again. No need to return my call. Have a good evening.”
But as Lindsay finished clearing the table and returning her pretty cut-glass dessert cups to the cupboard, she had to admit that she didn’t want him to have a good evening. Not after making an absolute mess of hers without even being here.
And where was he tonight, anyway? What was he doing, and who was he was doing it with?
With renewed energy, she started the dishwasher, moved the lilacs from her table and yanked up her lacy tablecloth, determined not to think about it. The two of them had moved on.
Isn’t that what she’d just told her mother?
Wired, Ike strode inside the one-story, pale brick Spindrift Public Library on Saturday morning and stopped at the aging librarian’s desk for directions to the children’s section. Getting them, he moved past a row of idle computers, then past a few elderly men reading newspapers in the sunlight spilling through a wall of windows.
He spotted her the instant he rounded a corner near the rear of the building, and he experienced an unwelcome, but pleasant little ping. From her perch on a low stool surrounded by shelves crammed with books, she was reading and laughing with the dozen four-to-six-year-olds sitting Indian-style around her. Their attention was riveted on her. She held the tall book open on her lap as she paged through it so the kids could enjoy the bright illustrations.
Something brushed his leg. With a start, Ike jerked a look down at the floor. A little orange tabby cat looked up at him, then apparently decided he wasn’t worth her time and padded by him. A moment later, she’d joined the children, and a moment after that, was wending around Lindsay’s feet. Lindsay kept reading, stroked the cat, then turned the page.
A cat in a library? Her cat? He hadn’t noticed a cat when he’d visited her two nights ago. Then again, he’d barely noticed anything but her green eyes and mile-long legs.
Taking a book from a shelf, Ike hung back, mostly out of sight, flipping through it and listening to the expressive sound of her voice as she read. She looked like a young, doting mother, beautiful and engaging and slender… And he had to look away before his body betrayed his other thoughts.
Nostalgia hit as he recalled her expressing an interest in working with kids several times during their marriage—thought about getting involved with Brownies or the Big Brothers and Sisters program during her spare time. That was before he’d gotten to know and enjoy Sam and Jennie’s toddlers, and he’d asked why she’d want to do that. Grinning, she’d replied that she needed some practice for that “someday” when they’d have little ones of their own.
But someday had never come, and Ike felt the old edginess return as his mind sifted through the facts and once again assigned blame.
Disappointed whines erupted as Lindsay finished and closed the book. Then she handed each child a rainbow-colored coupon for ice cream and suddenly they were hugging her and chattering happily again. Seconds later they bolted from the room to join their parents, the little orange tabby briskly following, her flag of a tail in the air.
Ike returned the book to the shelf as Lindsay walked unerringly toward him. He hadn’t noticed her noticing him…but then, they’d always had a connection of sorts, an energy that flowed between them like honey from a hive. An exciting buzz, an intuitive realization that the other was near.
“Hi,” she murmured.
Ike took in her khaki slacks and white knit top. Today her sun-streaked blond hair fell to her shoulders and waved softly around her face. “Hi. I got your message.”
“Then you’re aware that she said no.”
“Yes.” He was disappointed, but more than that, he was frustrated. He wanted to move on this thing. He had nothing solid to base it on, but his gut told him that timing was important—and searching through Ricky’s things was the only way he could think of to… To what? Get absolution for his sins? To prove to Lindsay and her mother that if someone hadn’t gotten to Ricky the day he’d died, there would’ve been another attempt to keep him quiet?
“How can we change your mother’s mind?”
Lindsay looked around, then glanced toward the desk. “Let me get my purse from the librarian, then we can talk outside.”
“Your purse—and your cat?” he asked.
The somber look in her eyes left. “Oh, Marmalade’s not mine. She lives here. She’s one of the library cats.”
“There are more?”
“Yep, three. It’s a trendy thing that seems to be catching on—mostly in cities where the libraries are located in older buildings. The cats are invited in to keep down the rodent population.” She quirked a brow at him. “I’m surprised they don’t have them in Portland.”
Ike quirked a brow back. “When have you ever known me to spend time in libraries?”
“Never?”
“Right.”
They approached the graying librarian at the desk, and with a smile, the woman extended Lindsay’s purse.
“Thanks, Mrs. Arnett. I’ll see you in two weeks.”
“Looking forward to it,” the librarian returned cheerfully. “The youngsters enjoy you so much.”
“Not half as much as I enjoy them,” Lindsay answered warmly, and Ike could see that she was telling the truth. There’d been a glow about her as she’d interacted with the kids.
When they were out in the bright sun, she returned to their “cat” conversation. “Getting back to our kitties, they don’t work for their dinners here. They’re just furry little welcome wagons. Most people love them—think they add a homey feel to the place.”
“And those who don’t?”
She grinned. “Those who don’t, ignore them and get the same treatment from the cats.”
The municipal parking lot was several doors ahead, just past a small brick insurance office and a beauty parlor. They walked together beneath the leafy trees lining the street, the heels of Lindsay’s sandals sounding softly on the sun-dappled concrete.
She glanced up at him. “So how did you find me this time?”
“Your neighbor—the one with the R.V. parked in the driveway. She saw me at your door and called over that it was your Saturday to read to the kids.” They turned left and entered the lot, the breeze tossing her hair and giving Ike a glimpse of gold hoop earrings. “So I guess you meant what you said to the librarian, huh? You looked like you were having a good time in there.”
“I was. Kids are great. They’re interested and attentive and always eager to learn new things. That’s something I don’t always get from adults.”
“You read to adults, too?”
“No, but last year I started teaching CPR courses. Some of the businesses around here require their staff to know the basics, just in case a problem arises. Occasionally I get the feeling that one or two of them are only there because their job depends on it.”
“Got a list of their names? I’ll stay out of their stores.”
“Not a bad idea, but I doubt you’d need their help. You look to be in decent shape.” A fraction of a second later, she seemed to realize that she’d given him a compliment, and jerked her gaze from his to dig her keys from her purse.
Her red Chevy Blazer was parked just inside the perimeter of the lot. Lindsay unlocked it with the remote pod dangling from her key chain.
“You asked inside how we could change my mother’s mind. The answer to that is, I don’t know.”
He frowned. “I was hoping you’d spoken to her today with better results. God knows I didn’t get anywhere talking to your brother’s thug friends last night.”
Then he’d been working, not playing last night, Lindsay realized, feeling a little lift. He hadn’t been entertaining Brandy or some other woman who was into six-pack abs and sexy eyes. “You spoke to his friends?”
“For all the good it did me.”
“Who? And what did they say? Were they any help?”
She saw him check his watch, then frown. “Do you have be anywhere in the next hour or so?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then lock your car back up and let’s walk down to the harbor for something to eat. Nothing fancy—just some takeout. We can walk and talk while we stuff our faces. I skipped breakfast, and my stomach’s damn near digesting my backbone.”
Lindsay hesitated, her thoughts skipping from what people would say, to what John would think, to what her mother would feel. And then to what she felt. Finally she nodded, hit the remote lock on her key chain again and slipped her keys into the pocket of her khakis. She wasn’t hungry, but something he’d learned might change her mother’s mind about the search. Because beneath all the bravado, attitude and irresponsibility, her brother had been a good kid at heart. She was convinced that he could’ve changed in time, especially with Ike’s guidance and his dogged insistence that Ricky shape up. They owed it to themselves—and her brother’s memory—to find out what had really happened.
Twenty minutes later, with gulls wheeling and calling raucously in the clear sky over the docks, they strolled along, Ike alternately speaking and washing down his breakfast croissant with a foam cup of black coffee.
Lindsay found herself studying the full, masculine slope of his mouth too often, remembering things she shouldn’t. Feeling things she shouldn’t. At least she’d agreed to let him buy her an iced tea, and that had given her something to do with her hands. She’d had them in and out of her pockets a dozen times since Ike’s fingertips had grazed hers earlier and a jolt of pure, shivery electricity had shot up her arm, then detoured south. She didn’t need any more chemistry today. She needed information.
“In the end, all I got was attitude,” Ike continued. “They’re either too connected, scared spitless beneath all their cocky speeches, or they’re as clueless as we are.” He paused. “But even if they don’t know who’s at the top of the heap, they do know something.”
That disturbed her because on Thursday night, he’d said that the narcotics officer who’d arrested Ricky believed her brother had been involved with a minor organization. “When you say ‘top of the heap’ are you talking about mob connections? Because I just can’t see Ricky getting involved with people like that.”
“I’m talking about the person pulling the strings, whoever he is. There are enough drug peddlers in this area and the surrounding states that the head guy doesn’t have to have a last name full of vowels.”
Frowning, he pulled his sunglasses from the breast pocket of his blue knit shirt, offered them to her, then, when she shook her head, slipped them on. “When I was at the gym this morning, Tank gave me a couple of names I hadn’t heard before. I’ll check them out tonight—unless your mother has a change of heart.”
“Tonight? Why do you have to do this in the dark?” Old fears returned, the same fears she’d had to deal with whenever he left home with a fugitive contract in hand. “Why can’t you talk to these people during the day?”
He seemed amused by that. “Because these aren’t the kind of people who surface during the day. Tank gave me their street names and told me where they hang out.”
“But they have to live somewhere.”
“I’m sure they do, but I don’t have their addresses, and Ma Bell doesn’t list names like Ace and Creamer in the phone book.”
“Ike, I don’t like this.”
“I’m careful. You know me.”
Yes, she did know him. Too well.
Water lapped at the pier pilings and tethered rowboats bobbing outside one of the rental shops as they left the harbor and started up the asphalt path to the main street.
He glanced down at her, then laughed. “Relax.”
Lindsay glared at him and sipped her tea, remembering the scar from a gunshot on his left side. Recalling the night she’d nervously prowled an E.R. waiting room while a doctor sutured a cut over his right eye. It was healed now, reduced to a fine white line mostly hidden by his dark eyebrow. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen again.
Still…he was strong and fit, every bone, muscle and sinew in his body ready for whatever came along. He also owned most of the crime-fighting paraphernalia police officers did—handcuffs, weapons, body armor—and his SUV was equipped with leg shackles for transporting skips.
The fact remained that in her opinion, he didn’t always use sound judgment.
She glanced up at him again. “Are you taking someone with you?” When he was on a recovery job, he generally partnered up or phoned the police for backup.
“Hardly. This is personal.”
“Then wear your vest if you go to Old Port tonight. Don’t leave it in your car.”
Grinning, Ike drained the rest of his coffee, then deposited the foam cup in a trash receptacle they passed by. “You shouldn’t say things like that, Linz. I’ll start thinking you care.”
Lindsay sent him a withering look. Just once, she’d like to have a postdivorce conversation with him without Ike baiting her or ticking her off. “Just sympathizing with my fellow medics and EMTs. They’re the people who have to rush to a scene when some idiot forgets to use common sense.”
“Nag, nag, nag,” he drawled, but there was an easy humor in his tone and she had to smile.
Her smile wobbled a bit, however, when they reached her car, and she set her drink on the roof before slipping her keys from her pocket. Because suddenly, she didn’t want to say goodbye. She sensed that he felt it, too, that old connection they’d always had, kicking in. If she didn’t count the last few stressful minutes, her walk to the docks with him had been…almost nice.
“Call me,” he murmured seriously. “You have my cell phone number. I’ll hang around for a while. Tell your mother I’ll do it any way she sees fit. But make her understand that no matter what she thinks of me, she owes this to her son.”
“Ike, all I can do is try.”
He removed his glasses and his darkly compelling gaze held hers. “Try hard. I think the clock could be ticking on this one.”
She was just opening her car door when he touched her, his callused hand warm on her upper arm. “Linz?”
Lindsay turned around to meet the question in his eyes. Then in a flash, whatever he was about to say vanished in the wake of something more basic. More elemental. Her pulse quickened and an age-old heat surged in her veins.
A split second later, his mouth was on hers, her heart was pounding, and Lindsay was clutching his broad shoulders and kissing him back for all she was worth.
Chapter 4
Floating. She was floating. Lindsay’s breasts flattened against Ike’s chest as he crushed her in his arms, and their hungry mouths celebrated the discovery that nothing had changed for them in this. Every exquisite taste and tingling response was the same as it had been two years ago. Their tongues met and tangled. Their sun-warmed bodies strained against each other, even though it was impossible to get any closer. And inhaling deeply, Lindsay pulled his musky male scent into her nostrils, into her throat, into her quivering stomach. Groaning her name, Ike slanted his mouth over hers and went back for more.
It was almost as though they’d suddenly been given the power to turn back time, almost as though the years and the tears hadn’t happened.
But…they had.
Lindsay stopped kissing him. Stopped moving her hands through the soft, thick shag of hair at his collar.
Then slowly, with embarrassment stinging her cheeks, she slid her arms from around his neck and pressed her palms to his chest. She had to put some space between them.
It took a moment for the murky desire in Ike’s dark eyes to fade. Then they regarded each other for what seemed like an eternity, acutely aware of their labored breathing and runaway pulses, painfully conscious that something dangerous had just occurred without their willing direction.
The startling slam of a car door and the quick turn of an engine gave Lindsay a jolt, and she stepped back against her car, appalled. Dear God. The driver at the far end of the lot had to have walked right past them on the way to his vehicle—there was no other entrance. Yet Lindsay hadn’t heard a thing but the rush of blood in her ears. For those few reckless, irresponsible seconds, her world had been Ike and everything beyond her closed eyelids had ceased to exist.
Flustered, she glanced away to comb her fingers through her hair and study her sandals. How on earth did they get past this?
“I—you were about to say something,” she stammered.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I was.” He didn’t go on until she looked at him again. “I was about to ask if you wanted some help varnishing your woodwork since I’d be sticking around for a while.” His heated gaze dropped to her lips and lingered a bit too long before he went on in an uneasy tone, “But maybe that’s not such a hot idea right now.”
Or maybe it was too hot, Lindsay reflected, her blood still pumping hard.
The car she’d heard approached. Quickly, she turned her face away then sent the driver a veiled glance as the car passed. Her heart sank when she recognized the woman behind the wheel of the green Chevy Impala as one of her mother’s Red Hat Society friends. Madeline somebody. She and her mother weren’t terribly close, but Lindsay knew the woman by sight, and the woman knew her.
“Wonderful,” she said, expelling a sigh. “My name will be on everyone’s lips by sundown.”
Ike nodded in the Impala’s direction. “I take it, that woman’s going to be a problem?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Lindsay shook off her uncertainty, then said firmly, “No. She won’t be a problem.”
She wasn’t a child. She was thirty-two years old, and it was senseless to worry about what people—even her mother—thought about her swallowing a man’s tongue at one o’clock on a sunny afternoon in a public place. She couldn’t change what happened. She could only make sure that it didn’t happen again.
Gathering her sensibilities, she returned to his earlier comment. “Thank you for offering to help, but I have errands to do, then I want to stop by my mom’s house to talk to her again. Whether you believe it or not, I’m as committed to this search as you are.”
His brow lined beneath his wind-tossed hair. “Good. Call me. I’ll hang around until four, but then I’m going back to the city. There’s someone I have to see before I head down to Old Port tonight.”
The flippant question leaped off her tongue before she could call it back. “Heavy date?”
He wasn’t amused. In fact, he looked annoyed. “What do you think?”
She thought that even though she’d asked, she didn’t want to know. Not when his kiss still burned on her lips and her nerve endings still hopped like jumping beans beneath her skin. Not when it would hurt to hear him say yes.
“I’ve been asked to serve a summons on a deadbeat dad,” he said when she didn’t reply. “I got a lead that he’ll be coming in on an early flight, and I need to serve him before he takes off again.”
Lindsay grimaced inside, wishing she’d learn to think before she spoke. Funny how that particular shortcoming only cropped up when Ike was around. Pulling her car door open wider, she climbed inside and slid behind the steering wheel. She met his eyes again. “Where will you be until four?”
He took her iced tea from the roof of her car and handed it to her. “Millie’s. I brought my laptop with me, so if she doesn’t have a full house, I’ll commandeer a back booth and catch up on some work while I wait to hear from you.” He paused, his expression warming a little and faintly nostalgic. “She’s curious about us.”
“I know.”
“If she asks?”
Lindsay put her drink in her cup holder. “If she asks, tell her the truth.”
But what was the truth? she wondered. There was the truth about her brother. But there was also a truth about them—two people who’d been so wildly, joyously in love it had been impossible to keep their hands to themselves as they’d gobbled hot wings at Millie’s, then rushed to their secret spot on the shore to snuggle and watch the sun set. Their current truth was that, while love was gone, they still wanted each other with the same passion and desperation they always had.
“Ever think about those nights on the beach?” he asked quietly, almost as if he could read her mind.
“Sometimes,” she admitted, because she wouldn’t lie to him. But that didn’t change anything. “Be careful at Old Port tonight.”
Then he nodded, and she shut her door.
But as she left the lot, Lindsay looked into her rearview mirror and watched him walk to his SUV. And back came the breathless tingle she’d felt in his arms. They’d done well ignoring that kiss, she decided, her spirits suddenly sinking again.
How amazingly skilled and civilized of them.
At eight-fifteen that night, Ike ambled wearily up the hall of his apartment building, unlocked the door to his efficiency and stepped inside. He tossed his keys on the cheap end table beside his cheaper sofa. The room was furnished in Early-American Attic, but it was fine for his purposes. He was out on jobs so often that all he needed was a clean place to flop when he was in town. Now, with the summons served and still no call from Lindsay, he dropped his duffel on the brown tweed couch, glanced around and saw the glaring difference between his place and hers.
There were no flowers, no framed prints on the walls, no lacy doilies on antique tables, no ivies spilling from window-hung pots. But that was fine. He had a nineteen-inch TV, a bed, table and chairs, and the utensil drawer in his tiny kitchenette wasn’t sticking shut this year. Good enough.
Crossing to his painted-white cupboards, Ike picked up the note his cleaning lady had left taped to the coffeemaker. He read it, half grinned, then opened his refrigerator and took out the large margarine container with the masking tape on the lid. Printed in Leona’s strong hand were the words: MINESTRONE SOUP—THROW OUT AFTER TUESDAY. Next to it was a loaf of homemade bread.
Counting himself lucky to know Leona Parlavecci, he emptied half of the soup into a bowl, popped it into the microwave and went to the phone on the wall.
“You don’t have to feed me, Leona,” he said when she picked up.
The short graying woman with the thick Italian accent chuckled. “And you don’t have to overpay me when I clean your place, but you do. You like the bread?”
“Haven’t tried it yet. I just got in. But the soup you left is warming, and I’ll be cutting the loaf any minute.”
“Good! When I emptied your wastebasket, it was full of fast-food trash. You need a good woman to take care of you, Michael.”
Ike smiled. Leona was the only one who called him Michael anymore. The day they met she told him that Ike was a gangster’s name, and she didn’t clean house for gangsters. Michael, on the other hand, was an archangel. She never recanted, even when he told her he came from a long line of good guys—cops.
“I’ve looked for a good woman, Leona. There’s no one out there like you, and Frank would get royally ticked off if I moved in on his bride.”
Her merry laughter flowed through the phone line. “If you can’t find a nice girl, you’re looking in the wrong places. Go to church. We have beautiful young women at St. Joe’s.”
He grinned. “I’m not a Catholic.”
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