Easy Loving
Sheryl Lynn
HER PROTECTORA WOMAN IN JEOPARDYCatherine St. Clair finally had everything she'd ever wanted–including the perfect fiancé. Then Easy Martel barged back into her life, telling her that her "perfect" fiancé was a would-be murderer. Easy spoke with conviction in his voice; he looked at her with intensity in his eyes…but was he telling the truth?AND THE MAN WHO MUST PROTECT HERSeeing her again brought back all of his old feelings…old yearnings for all he'd lost. Yet no matter how many times Easy went over his investigation, the facts brought him to one place–to Catherine. How could he convince her that she was the next victim…and the only place she'd be safe was in the shelter of his arms?A woman alone…with no one to trust. Where can she run? Straight into the arms of HER PROTECTOR
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#ua757c6c3-81ec-5c00-a6c9-92f47cd1d9eb)
Excerpt (#ua2156d77-288f-5670-9041-6910191c8f33)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#u9bc340df-728a-573c-9c74-4221027ba016)
Title Page (#u5f7b28b0-0919-52da-8333-7b239926b6da)
Dedication (#uea207f5e-915b-50cf-b576-28cf92ffb28a)
CAST OF CHARACTERS (#ub1b1a2b0-cf94-50ea-9ea5-cbaef9368fe2)
Chapter One (#ud61506b7-ecdc-5632-812d-cfd49d28263f)
Chapter Two (#ua1a51c8a-9d09-544a-ba04-bed5229b16bb)
Chapter Three (#u6f6b7108-2e43-5ac5-a23b-2e4c3011c0fa)
Chapter Four (#u079c0a26-a15a-5688-b9cf-693491dd698f)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“We’re good together.”
He plunged his long fingers through her hair. “You know I’m right.”
His fingers slid from beneath her hair and trailed tenderly across her cheeks. Catherine’s belly ached in repressed arousal. Her chest ached with the depth of her emotions. Her eyes and throat ached from holding back tears. Intuition nagged her soul, telling her only Easy held the power to soothe those aches.
She lifted her chin. His mouth, so perfectly shaped and sensual, weakened her resolve.
“I can’t, Easy,” she said, pleading more with herself than with him.
“I need you.” His voice was husky with sincerity. “I’ll never stop wanting you. We belong together and you know it. And I won’t let you marry another man. You’re mine.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#ulink_2f46cb4b-fe08-53f2-b631-7b48706abe64)
Sheryl Lynn lives in a pine forest atop a hill in Colorado. When not writing, she amuses herself by embarrassing her two teenagers, walking her dogs in a nearby park and feeding peanuts to the dozens of Steller’s jays, scrub jays, blue jays and squirrels who live in her backyard. Her best ideas come from the newspapers, although she admits that a lot of what she reads is way too weird for fiction.
Easy Loving
Sheryl Lynn
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This is for John Hawk, wherever he may be.
CAST OF CHARACTERS (#ulink_e5ce015b-986e-539f-be3f-1e0d05432c1b)
Easy Martel—This private eye knows investigating a murder is way out of his league, but he also knows he’s the only man who can save Catherine’s life.
Catherine St. Clair—The shy book illustrator has finally gotten her life right where she wants it, until Easy Martel reappears from the past.
Jeffrey Livman—He’s the perfect man, smooth, educated, prosperous and sophisticated. There’s also a good chance his résumé includes murder.
John Tupper—He’ll go to any lengths to bring his sister’s killer to justice.
Trish Martel—Easy’s baby sister will do anything for her family, including tracking down a lost child.
Chapter One (#ulink_2c0e92a1-95e6-57a4-af36-023eca7895ae)
While hurrying across the parking lot, Easy Martel spotted his sister emerging from her Mustang. He lifted his gaze to the heavens and whispered, “Yes.” Dumb luck, his favorite ally, came through for him again.
“Trish!” he shouted and waved her toward his Chevy. She said something to the man who accompanied her. Easy urged them both to hurry. He flung his equipment bag into the back seat of his car. He slid behind the steering wheel.
Trish opened the passenger door and peered suspiciously inside. “What—?”
“Get in, get in. Your timing is perfect. I need your help. Hurry.” He glanced at his watch and prayed the traffic lights were with him. “Come on, Trish! I’m running out of time.”
She told her friend to get in the back. She sat in the front passenger seat. Easy gunned the engine and squealed out of the parking lot.
“Are you crazy?” Trish fumbled with her seat belt. “Don’t bother answering. You are crazy. What are we doing?”
“Going to the airport.” He looked over his shoulder at the stranger. The man was around forty, slim, with thinning blond hair and bulging eyes. Not one of Trish’s boyfriends, Easy surmised. She had a weakness for the tall, dark and stupid type.
“Wait a minute! I’m not helping you.” Trish emphasized the words by clamping her arms over her bosom and jutting her chin. “The last time I helped, that guy sicced a dog on me and chased me with a pipe wrench. He almost killed me!”
Trish was thirteen months younger than he, but they looked so much alike with their dark hair and eyes, people often mistook them for twins. Like him, she had an adventurous streak seven miles wide. He flashed his most winning smile. “I promise, no dogs, no pipe wrenches. I need to shoot some video. My client tipped me off. She’s positive her husband is taking his girlfriend on a business trip.”
Trish pulled a face. “You are so sleazy!”
“Me? This dirtbag tells his wife that he has to go on an emergency trip. Ha! He set it up so she can’t interrupt his fun.” He met the stranger’s reflection in the rearview. “Hi, I’m Easy Martel, the sleazy private eye.”
The man used a handkerchief to mop at his brow. “Uh, John Tupper.” He nervously eyed the passing scenery while Easy raced down Fountain Boulevard.
Trish twisted on the seat. “John, this is my brother. Easy, John works with me at the insurance company. He’s an adjuster. I told him you can help him.”
The majority of Easy’s business dealt with insurance fraud. In the past six years he’d become an expert at ferreting out cheats who faked injuries or lied about stolen property. He kept his eyes on the road, alert for any lurking cops who might object to his speeding. “What you got?” He stomped on the gas to beat a yellow light. “Fake back injury? Phony burglary?”
Trish yelped and clutched the dashboard. “Slow down!”
He turned onto Powers and checked the time again. The dirtbag’s plane departed in thirty-nine minutes. Easy hoped to catch him playing preboarding kissy face with his honey. He goosed the speed up to sixty-five.
“Uh, actually, it’s personal, Mr. Martel,” John said. He held on to the back of Trish’s seat with both hands.
“Call me Easy, John. We’re all family here.”
Trish enjoyed tagging along when he needed an extra pair of hands, and she was as good, and sometimes better than him when it came to research. Some aspects of his job repelled her, though. A hopeless romantic when it came to family matters, she’d never recommend him for a child custody case or a cheating spouse.
“How personal are we talking?”
“His sister was murdered,” Trish said. “The police say it’s an accident, but it’s not.”
Easy changed lanes to pass a semi. To his left he noted an airliner banking for final approach toward the Colorado Springs airport. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times, I don’t stick my nose in capital cases. Only TV private eyes get involved in murders.”
She huffed her exasperation. “You have to hear what’s going on. You can help him, Easy, I know you can. You have to.”
He reached the airport entrance in record time. Concentrating on driving, praying for a parking spot in the usually overcrowded lot, he waved his sister into silence. He’d been after this slimeball for two weeks. His client knew her husband was cheating. Wives always knew. She wanted proof, something to shove in his face, but the dirtbag knew his wife knew and was being very careful. The spur-of-the-moment “business” trip proved it.
So as not to get hung up at the security checkpoint, he began emptying his pockets. He tossed coins, pens, a penlight, a Swiss Army knife, a pair of handcuffs, a ring of master keys and his cell phone on the floor at Trish’s feet. She grimaced at the clattering collection.
“If you don’t chase killers, why bother carrying handcuffs?”
“My girlfriends like them.”
Dumb luck stayed with him; he found a parking spot in the first row. He grabbed his equipment bag. “We can talk inside. Hurry!” He took off at a run for the terminal with John and Trish right on his heels. Inside, he tore up the escalator. He paused at a monitor displaying departure times to find the gate he needed.
“What are you going to do?” Trish demanded breathlessly.
“Put you in the movies.” He clapped a hand on John’s bony shoulder and shoved him closer to Trish. He approved of the man’s gray suit and her soft blue dress. Nice, but not too dressy. “You two make a great-looking couple.”
Cringing away from Trish, John tugged at his jacket. “Uh, I’m married.”
“It’s only acting.”
They met up with a crowd at the security checkpoint, but fortunately airport security hadn’t limited entry to ticket holders only. Easy anxiously checked his watch while Trish peeled off her oversize earrings, necklace and an armful of bracelets before she stopped setting off the metal detector alarms.
“You wear too much junk,” Easy grumbled.
“I didn’t ask for a trip to the airport.” She trotted to keep up while she worked the earrings back into her ear-lobes.
He strode down the terminal, unzipping the bag as he went. He pulled out the video camera and turned it on. He double-checked the battery and blew minuscule pieces of lint off the lens. Everything operated perfectly.
At the gate his luck continued. Seated side by side in the waiting area, Dirtbag and his honey held hands. Even better, they faced the broad bank of windows; sun glare wouldn’t interfere with the taping. Easy huddled with Trish and John.
“Make like honeymooners.” He handed John the equipment bag. “It’s the guy over there in the checked suit sitting with the brunette. Move behind them so I can get them in the picture.”
John slung the equipment bag over his shoulder. “We don’t have to go to court or anything, do we?”
“Nope. You’re just innocent passersby.”
Trish groaned. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Hey, when you get married and your old man cheats on you, you’ll thank me when I catch him.”
Trish stiffened, arching her brows. “Any man I marry will never cheat”
“That’s right, because then I’ll have to kill him. Go on. Ham it up. Make me believe you’re in love.”
The taping went as smooth as creamy peanut butter. He even captured the dirtbag grinning at Trish’s and John’s antics. The brunette leaned over to give Dirtbag a big smooch on the lips.
He kept videotaping while the adulterous pair boarded the plane. Chuckling, he turned off the camera. “Thanks, Trish, John. I love it when a plan comes together.” He patted the camera, knowing he’d earned yet another month’s payment on his motorcycle. “I owe you lunch.”
“You owe me a lot more than that.” Trish grabbed his arm and steered him into a small cafeteria. “You have to listen to John. It’s really important.”
Forcing a sober expression he turned to his sister’s friend. “I don’t have access to the forensic tools the cops have. Besides, interfering with police investigations is a good way to end up in prison. I’m sorry, man, but I’m the wrong guy for the job.”
Trish urged the men to sit at a small table. “Shut up and listen, Easy. It’s a lot more personal than you think. Remember Catherine St. Clair? She’s back in town.” She swished away to fetch coffee.
Easy gawked at his sister’s back. Catherine…his Catherine? Never Cat or Cathy or Cee-cee or Cate—Easy had nicknamed her Tinker Bell. Even after twelve years the sound of her name turned his insides hot and cold while an odd sensation ruffled below his diaphragm.
He knew she’d moved to Arizona. Years ago, he’d traced her address and phone number—he kept them locked away in a file cabinet. Sometimes the urge to call her or appear on her doorstep grew so strong it drove him a little bit crazy. Only the still-tender shreds of his broken heart kept him from following through.
Annoyed at the way old emotions sneaked up on him, Easy cleared his throat. “How do you know Catherine?”
“I don’t,” John said. “I know the man she’s dating. His name is Jeffrey Livman. He was my sister’s husband, the man she loved. He murdered her.” He smoothed a hand over the side of his fine hair and dragged in a long, shaky breath. His voice firmed up, seething with well-nourished rage. “Jeffrey didn’t wait a full month after Roberta died before he began dating Miss St. Clair.”
Trish returned with a red plastic tray holding three cups of coffee. “I freaked when John showed me the pictures he took of Catherine with Jeffrey. I haven’t seen her since high school when you guys broke up and she moved away.”
His Catherine…“You said the cops don’t think it’s murder. What am I supposed to do?”
“You better figure out something,” Trish said. “John and I are convinced Jeffrey is going to marry Catherine so he can murder her, too.”
“WILL YOU MARRY ME, Catherine?”
Catherine St. Clair nearly choked on a spoonful of raspberry sorbet. Momentarily frightened by the sensation of her throat filled with shards of crystalline ice, she swallowed hard and followed it with a gulp of water.
Jeffrey patted between her shoulder blades. “Did I startle you? I’m sorry.”
She dabbed at her lips with a napkin and cast him a look askance. “Don’t make jokes when I have my mouth full.”
“I’m serious. I love you and want you to be my wife. We’re the perfect couple, honey. Together we’ll conquer the world.”
She searched for any hint of laughter in his pale blue eyes. He was serious.
She shifted on the seat and glanced nervously around the restaurant. She and Jeffrey dined often at the Grape and Olive, and always took the back corner booth. The few other diners didn’t pay her and Jeffrey any attention. “I’m flattered, but we barely know each other.”
He shook a finger at her. “You said we were soul mates.”
“I meant because of the house.” Five months ago she’d hired Jeffrey, a real-estate broker, to help her find a house to buy. He’d found the perfect property for her—a charming raised rancher, with fixer-upper potential, on ten acres in Black Forest—as if he’d magically conjured her dream into reality. Since it had been a cash sale, she’d closed quickly on the deal. To celebrate, Jeffrey had taken her to dinner. They’d been dating ever since.
She admired his energy and assertiveness. He liked being in control of any situation. In small doses his domineering personality suited her, acting as a foil for her withdrawing nature. He loved the outdoors as much as she. He was brilliant when it came to finances, so she often sought his advice about investments. They had fun together.
But marriage?
“I love you, Catherine, truly, madly, deeply. And—” He reached inside his jacket and brought out a velvetcovered box. “I am more serious about you than I’ve ever been about anything, or anyone, in my entire life.” He opened the box. Jewels glittered in the candlelight.
An elaborate gold setting contained a large blue sapphire nestled inside a double circle of diamonds. Her breath caught in her throat. She clutched her hands into fists, wanting to touch the ring, but not daring.
“I had this custom-made to match your eyes.” He inched the box closer to her, urging her to touch it. “Please, darling, do me the honor of being my wife.”
Gus Neci, the restaurant owner, approached the corner booth. Catherine sat in stunned silence while Jeffrey leaned forward, his handsome face alit with eager anticipation.
“Everything is well, yes?” Gus asked. He wheeled a small cart next to the table. Atop a white linen cloth, a silver ice bucket chilled a bottle of champagne. Two slender flutes gleamed in the candlelight. A bouquet of red roses, wrapped in silvery paper, rested next to the ice bucket.
Flustered, she shoved another spoonful of sorbet in her mouth. Jeffrey had obviously planned the proposal down to the smallest detail. Annoyance tightened her forehead and chest. He had no right to spring this kind of surprise on her. “Everything is fine, Gus, thank you.”
Neither man reacted to her icy tone. Jeffrey displayed the ring for Gus’s admiration. With a grand flourish, Gus presented Catherine with the roses. She forced herself to accept them. She managed a gracious smile, but inside she seethed. While Gus opened the champagne, she whispered, “I haven’t said yes, Jeffrey.”
“You can’t say no.” He pulled the ring from the box and reached for her left hand.
She twisted on the seat and fussed with the roses. Jeffrey managed to snag her pinkie finger. In the midst of the ridiculous tug-and-pull match that ensued, Gus set the champagne flutes on the table.
“A toast to the happy couple! May you live happily ever after.”
Catherine snatched her hand free. She struck a champagne flute and set it flying. She lifted a stricken gaze to the restaurant owner. “I’m so sorry!”
Gus snapped his fingers for the busboy. “You must be shivering with joy. Such a handsome couple you are. Both so blond and all-American. You are every person’s dream, yes?” He whipped a napkin from his back pocket and began mopping up the spilled champagne.
Jeffrey offered his champagne to her. “We’re like Romeo and Juliet.”
“They died,” she said darkly. Not only was Jeffrey the only friend she’d made since moving back to Colorado, he was the first man she’d met in years with whom she felt comfortable. If she refused to marry him, he might break off the relationship altogether.
“I have to go home,” she announced and tossed the napkin on the table. “Gus, the fettuccine was superb and do tell the chef the sorbet is excellent. Thank you.”
“Catherine, wait—”
“I’m sorry, I have an early morning appointment. I’ll call you, okay?” She grabbed her purse and scooted out of the booth. Her gauze skirt tangled around her thighs and for a moment she feared falling flat on her face.
Jeffrey’s pale eyes turned flinty in the flickering candlelight. “The champagne. It’s Dom Pérignon—”
“I can’t drink and drive.” She swiped at her skirt, knowing she made an ass of herself, but unable to help it.
Two booths away, a slim blond woman wearing a tailored suit stood up and stared. Catherine recognized the title company closer who had processed the paperwork for Catherine’s house purchase. Jeffrey claimed he and the woman were good friends, but at the closing the woman had seemed uncomfortable and not friendly in the least. At the moment, she appeared horrified.
Noreen, Catherine finally remembered. Her cheeks burned, but she forced a smile. “Well, hello, again. Noreen?”
Noreen shifted her stare to Jeffrey. “I thought I recognized your voice, Jeff. Did I hear right? You guys are engaged?” A sickly smile thinned her lips. She lowered her gaze to the cart holding the champagne. Her voice rose an octave. “You’re going to get married?”
Jeffrey had said “good friends,” but Noreen’s reaction clearly showed they’d been closer than mere friends. Catherine had never asked Jeffrey about his past relationships—she’d never cared. All she cared about at the moment was escape.
“Nice seeing you again, Noreen. I’d love to stay and chat, but I have…” Her ability to continue the lie ran out of steam. “Goodbye, Gus.” She fled the restaurant.
Jeffrey caught up to her in the parking lot while she unlocked the door of her Blazer. “Darling, what’s the matter?”
“You know I’m not comfortable with public scenes. How could you do that to me? I’m so embarrassed.” She stared miserably at the toes of her woven sandals. “I’m sorry, I need some time to be alone. To think.”
He opened the car door for her and reached past her to place the bouquet of roses on the passenger seat. “You do love me,” he said. “I know it, you know it.” He pressed the ring box into her hand. She resisted, but he persisted until she closed her fingers around the box. “We can’t fight fate, darling.”
The velvet box seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. “I can’t—we don’t—you don’t know me!”
He stepped back and hung his head, his sheepish smile painted gold by the parking lot lights. “I’m a fast learner. I’ll never do anything to embarrass you again.” He pulled his fingers across his lips in a zippering motion. “I won’t pressure you either. I won’t say a word about it. All I ask is that you take the ring and think about how much I love you.”
Somewhat soothed, she nodded dumbly. He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.
“I’ll make you the happiest woman in the world. I’ll devote my life to making you smile. Think about it.” He gave her room to slide behind the steering wheel. “I love you.”
She wished she could say, “I love you,” back at him. Except she could not say what she did not mean. Until she trusted him enough to tell him the truth about herself, she could not love him. Unless she loved him, she could not tell him. She hoped he returned to the restaurant and shared the champagne with Noreen. They could rekindle their romance, and Catherine wouldn’t have to deal with Jeffrey anymore.
Ambiguous emotions wore on her during the long drive home.
At home she set the ring box on the fireplace mantel in her studio. She tried to forget it. It was like trying to forget a sore tooth. She refused to open the box, refused to try on the ring—Mrs. Jeffrey Livman.
She didn’t sleep well that night.
“WOULD MARRIAGE BE SO BAD?” she asked Oscar and Bent, the greyhounds, when the three of them took their morning run. Up and down the hilly red graveled road she jogged, trying to regulate her breathing in the thin high-country air. The greyhounds focused straight ahead, their long legs springing in graceful motion.
The dogs liked Jeffrey. Or at least, they tolerated him with the same regal aloofness with which they tolerated most visitors. She frowned at their knobby, bobbing heads. If the greyhounds judged character, they kept it strictly to themselves.
Later, when her agent called from New York, Catherine asked, “Margaret, what do you think about marriage?”
“I think it’s a hell of an expensive way for a man to get his laundry done.”
A grin tugged Catherine’s lips. “I forgot. You’re a cynic. Never mind.”
“Does this have to do with that car salesman you’re dating?”
“He’s a real-estate broker, and yes.” She fixed her gaze on the ring box and sighed. “He asked me to marry him.”
“Cars, real estate, it’s all the same. Forget it.”
“He gave me a ring. You ought to see it, it’s beautiful. A sapphire.”
“Keep the jewelry, dump the man. I need your full attention right now, sweetie.”
“Lots of artists are married. In fact, all the ones I know are. So are the writers and the editors and the art directors.” Catherine laughed. “Considering that my work is for children, don’t you think having a few of my own would be a plus?”
Margaret groaned loudly. “Babies and diapers and nannies and preschools—don’t do this to me! You are about to become very, very hot. Tabor Publishing is now talking a twenty-book series.”
Catherine sobered; her hand tightened on the telephone. Her stomach suddenly felt very heavy. “Twenty?” The word emerged in a squeak. “I thought they wanted three?”
“Doc Halladay loves your work. He’s renegotiating the book series. He’s convinced it’ll be as big, maybe bigger than his television show. He’s full of crap, of course, nothing is bigger than TV, but these books are going to sell millions.”
Catherine didn’t doubt it. Doc Halladay, the Science Brain, had taken the media world by storm. With a winning smile, a magician’s shtick and a gift for making the complicated sound easy, he’d won a bigger preadolescent audience than Barney the dinosaur and Sesame Street combined.
“If we put this together, this could make your career and set you up for life. You could end up being the hottest children’s book illustrator of the century. Of two centuries! You’ll win a Caldecott.”
“Twenty books?”
“After Doc Halladay saw those mock-ups you did using photographs of him along with paintings, he flipped. As far as he’s concerned, you’re the second coming of Michelangelo.”
“How much money are they talking?”
“A cool million. Of course, that’s a five-year commitment, and we’re still squabbling about royalties, but it’s a very nice package.”
Catherine had to take several deep breaths to calm her fluttering belly.
“The contract proposal needs a Rosetta stone to decipher it. I’m overnighting you an outline of the terms and payouts. It looks complicated because it is complicated, but try not to be intimidated. I’ll have the whole thing vetted by an attorney before anything gets signed.”
Catherine loved her work, which combined her two great passions—art and science. In college, believing there was no future in fine art, she’d earned a biology degree with the goal of going to veterinary school. Then a friend had asked her to illustrate a children’s story she was trying to sell. The publisher had rejected the story, but asked Catherine if she’d submit more illustrations. Her career had been born.
After dozens of projects, she still loathed contract negotiations. She didn’t understand the fine print. The money terms were convoluted with the publisher paying out in bits and pieces based upon schedules apparently created by a necromancer scrying moon signs in springwater.
“They’re asking impossible deadlines, too,” Margaret said.
“I can do impossible. I live for impossible.”
“I know, sweetie. So don’t do something stupid like get married and run off to Tahiti to paint flowers on black velvet.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Margaret ended the conversation with details about the contract. Catherine tried very hard to keep her excitement under control. Contract negotiations could fall apart at any stage, and nothing was certain until everyone signed the paperwork.
After she hung up, she clasped her hands and danced around the studio. “Doc Halladay loves my work,” she sang. “I’ll be famous—”
Oscar and Bent lifted their narrow heads and looked toward the front of the house. Greyhounds, Catherine had discovered, were the perfect house pets. They were tidy, quiet, dignified and loved to lounge around on the furniture. They rarely barked. She’d set up an old sofa for them in her studio where they spent their days with their long legs sprawled, luxuriating in comfort.
“Is somebody coming?” she asked. “Normal dogs bark, you know.”
She heard an engine, throaty, powerful, unmistakable—a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. The noise increased, approaching the house up the long, curved driveway through the pine trees. Wondering who in the world she knew who owned a Harley, she stepped out onto the deck. She blinked in the bright sunshine. Oscar and Bent joined her. They stretched their long bodies and yawned mightily.
The motorcycle appeared, a modern-day destrier of sleek black shine and glittering chrome. The rider wore a black, full-face helmet. He guided the motorcycle around potholes and ruts in the wide, but ill-maintained driveway. The bike’s rear tire dropped and bounced in a pothole, and Catherine winced. Having the driveway graded and paved was her next home-improvement project.
The rider wheeled the bike around the circular drive to park before the deck. He was a big man, his suntanned arms roped with muscle. She glanced at the dogs, now flanking her feet. They weighed eighty pounds apiece and could run down a rabbit without breathing hard, but protect her?
The rider cut off the engine. The sudden silence heightened her awareness about her seclusion, with the pine forest shielding her from the road and neighbors. She watched the man dismount. With his back to her he worked off the helmet. His hair, thick and sooty black, gleamed with bluish lights. Despite her nervousness, her artist’s eye delighted in his powerful shoulders and the sinewy curves of his back.
He turned around.
He smiled and his dark eyes glittered like obsidian.
“Hello, Tink,” he said. “Long time, no see.”
Her brain froze. All sensations centered square in her chest where emotions long buried burst from their shell. For years she’d wondered what she would say to Easy Martel if she ever ran into him. She’d wondered what she would do, how she would act, what she might feel.
He was bigger than she remembered, his youthful slenderness grown into lean, broad-shouldered maturity. Once smooth olive cheeks now sported a definite beard shadow. He wore his black hair short rather than letting it hang shaggily down his neck. The smile remained the same, however, wry yet warm, completely focused, while those dark, dark eyes melded into hers.
Heart melting. Soul searing.
“Don’t you remember me?” he asked. “It’s me, Easy—”
She whipped about, raced into the house, slammed and locked the door.
Chapter Two (#ulink_365fb28c-18b7-51de-ade4-c33d35627f76)
Easy Martel slid a hand around the back of his neck. He frowned at the half-glass door where curtains swayed gently. He stood chest level to the deck flooring, eye to eye with a pair of dogs who poked their narrow heads between the railing. They watched him with quiet curiosity. Despite the dogs’ whip-thinness, they were large animals.
“Nice doggies.” He sidled to the steps. Alert for a growl or other threat, he climbed the steps slowly. “Good doggies.” He offered a hand for their inspection.
As one, the dogs turned and walked around the corner of the house. The clicking of their toenails on the decking faded in the distance.
Wary that this might be some canine trick, Easy hesitated. Maybe Catherine had trained her dogs in ninja tactics. He waited a few moments to see if the animals returned. When they didn’t, he knocked on the door. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s me, Easy Martel. Wasson High School?”
He considered she may have forgotten him, but she’d been as madly in love with him as he’d been with her. She’d never forget him. More likely she still had that weird habit of running off when flustered. Smiling in fond remembrance, he knocked again.
The door opened an inch. He glimpsed a hostile eye glaring back at him. Memories rushed in with tidal-wave force, sweeping him back twelve years. Catherine’s eyes had always fascinated him with their jewel-rich color and expressiveness. In high school she’d walked hunched over with her eyes downcast, her messy hair falling over her face. Despite her being awkward, pudgy and painfully shy, he’d looked into those sapphire depths and known she was beautiful. Cursing his own cowardice, he regretted every second they’d missed in the past twelve years.
“What are you doing here?” Her icy words startled him.
“Don’t you remember—”
“I know exactly who you are. Now go away.”
He retreated a step and rubbed his chin, thinking. Their breakup had been messy and acrimonious. That, however, had been when they were only kids. If he remembered correctly, she’d dumped him. “It’s been a long time, Tink. Are you still mad at me?”
She threw the door wide. Chin up, feet spread, shoulders back, she faced him squarely. She wore a cropped T-shirt that clung to the rounded rise of her breasts and revealed an alluring inch of flat belly. Denim shorts showed off a pair of shapely legs. Barefoot, she sported a thin gold chain around one slim ankle. He leaned forward for a better look. Gone were the baggy black clothes and self-conscious posture.
The guys in high school who used to call her a dog ought to see her now. Their eyeballs would pop out of their skulls.
“You’ve got some nerve. How did you find me?”
Suspicion prickled up and down his spine. Her attitude transcended hostility—she hated his guts. “I looked you up.”
“How? I’m not listed in the phone book.”
He accepted that insurance cheats, disability frauds, embezzlers and adulterers took exception to his snooping around. But an old girlfriend?
“I looked you up in the public records,” he said. “Your property is listed.” He tried a smile and a compliment. “You look great. You got yourself in shape. Took off the baby fat.”
Her mouth fell open. Color drained from her cheeks. She gasped.
Knowing he’d said something wrong, he backed up another step. “What?”
“You are so heartless, so cruel. You haven’t changed a bit, Earl Zebulon Martel. Not one tiny bit!”
Call “Ripley’s Believe It or Not,” he’d found a woman who didn’t like compliments about losing weight. He showed his palms in appeasement. “I mean you look nice. Your hair and everything. It’s pretty. You’re pretty.”
“That gives you the right to make cracks about the baby?”
Now he was so lost he may as well be out of state. “You have a baby?”
She charged out of the doorway like a grizzly bursting from the brush. Easy scooted backward until he hit the deck railing and could go no farther. She came close enough for him to smell an intriguing mixture of paint and vanilla. Each time she waggled a finger at his face, scent wafted to his nose. Memories teased and distracted him—her scent had always intoxicated him.
“That stupid, dumb jock act worked in high school, but don’t you dare pull it now. You know damn well I had a baby!”
His cheek’muscles twitched. Every inner sense screamed danger, but as yet he couldn’t quite identify the source. Cautiously he tried, “Congratulations?”
“Get off my property or I’m calling the police.”
He half turned in automatic response, but stopped. He replayed in his head the confrontation thus far. She recognized him, she despised him, the comment about baby fat enraged her, and she accused him of knowing she’d had a baby. Logic said, since they hadn’t seen each other in twelve years, then the only way he could have possibly known about a baby…
“You had a baby?” Sensing how she would reply, his words came softly, slowly. “My baby?”
She flipped her left hand. “Knock up your girlfriend.” She flipped open her right. “She has a baby. It’s biology, you idiot.”
Jeffrey Livman and John Tupper faded into insignificance. Memories built, the details growing clear. It had been the night of the winter festival right before Christmas break. At the dance he’d been horsing around with his friends; they began ragging him about Catherine. His buddies hadn’t understood why Easy loved her. She wasn’t popular, she didn’t know how to dress, she made straight As and she wasn’t cheerleader pretty. At eighteen, he’d been immature enough to join his friends in making fun of her. She’d blown up at him, telling him she never wanted to see him again. During Christmas break, she refused to see him or return his phone calls. When school resumed, she’d cut him dead, pretending he didn’t exist when they passed in the halls.
“You never told me you were pregnant.” As the implication sank in, his temper rose. He’d loved her—maybe he still did. They’d planned a future together and she hid a baby? “You never said one word.”
She clamped her arms over her chest. Her eyes blazed in heated challenge. “That’s why you dropped out of school and ran away to join the army.”
“I didn’t drop out. I had enough credits to graduate midterm. You’re the one who ran away. When I came back from basic training, you were gone. You dumped me,”
“You were a creep. And irresponsible.”
“You said you never wanted to see me again. You wouldn’t talk to me.”
“And give you a chance to not just call me a fat cow, but a fat, pregnant cow? You were cruel, Easy.”
She had him there. He hung his head. “I wrote you about a hundred letters from basic training. I thought joining the army would make you miss me and—” he shrugged “—maybe scared I’d be killed. I was trying to be a hero. But you didn’t answer my letters. You wouldn’t take my calls. When I went to your house, your parents wouldn’t let me see you. Nobody knew what happened to you.”
Some of the fire drained from her face and her rigid shoulders relaxed. Her brow furrowed in an expression of uncertainty. “My parents sent me to Arizona to live with my grandmother. They couldn’t stand to have me around, causing talk. I never got any letters.”
Easy remembered Catherine’s parents. Stiff, unsmiling people who never spoke to him and rarely said a word to their daughter. Mr. St. Clair was a hotshot lawyer—Mr. Perfect with plenty of big bucks and a high society lifestyle. Easy wondered how many of his rich clients and golfing buddies knew St. Clair had a vicious temper and a habit of smacking his daughter around. A lump lodged in his throat.
“I didn’t know, Catherine. I swear.”
She turned her face away, gazing distantly. A light breeze ruffled the ends of her hair. He remembered its softness and how she used to swing it in his face, tickling him.
“I tried to tell you at the dance. Do you remember? But your friends wouldn’t leave us alone and then you said all those mean things and you were laughing at me. I was so scared, so ashamed, and when you laughed at me I couldn’t face you anymore.”
He passed a hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”
She gave herself a shake. Lifting her chin, her expression now cool and unreadable, she met his gaze. Those deep blue depths held a coldness Easy had never suspected she could reach. She inhaled deeply and the corners of her mouth tipped in a strained smile. “It was a long time ago. I’m over it now.”
And he was the Pillsbury Doughboy’s evil twin. “So where’s the—”
“Excuse me,” she interrupted. “As fun as old home week could be, I’m sure you understand why I don’t feel like strolling down memory lane. I’d like you to leave. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t contact me anymore.”
“Where’s the kid, Catherine?” He looked about, seeking bicycles, roller skates or toys. He couldn’t do a thing about what happened twelve years ago, nor could he make up for the time they’d lost. Despite her accusations, though, he’d never shirked a responsibility in his life.
“There is no kid.”
Horrified, he pushed away from the railing. “The baby died?”
“I put her up for adoption.” Her rounded chin lifted another notch, defiant. “It was a girl. Six pounds, twelve ounces, perfectly healthy. She had hair. Black hair, just like yours. I signed the papers when she was twenty-four hours old. I held her once.” Her chin trembled and her voice cracked. Unfallen tears glazed her eyes. “I named her Elizabeth, after your mom, because she was always so nice to me. On the birth certificate I listed the father as unknown.”
He closed his eyes, trying to picture Catherine in labor, little more than a baby herself—alone, banished from home, deserted. He saw instead her face when they’d made love, her softly curved cheeks aglow without a trace of shyness or self-consciousness. Loving her had made him a better person. He hadn’t known it then, but he knew it now. She’d never disguised her intelligence or played games or treated him with anything other than respect. He’d lived for her admiration, sought her approval, strove to measure up to her standards.
He had a child. A funny piece of information. He held it in his thoughts as if it were a strange bug he’d never seen before.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “I swear, I didn’t know.”
Her belligerence faded, leaving her face naked with pain. “Now you do. So go away. I’m not in the mood for a class reunion.” She turned for the door, reaching for the handle.
“Catherine.” He took a step toward her. “Tink. We need to talk about this.”
She shook her head. Her blond-streaked hair shone with glimmering lights. “We have nothing to discuss.”
“Wrong answer. Where’s the kid? Where does she live?”
She turned about, her expression now bemused. “How am I supposed to know?”
“You’re her mother.”
“Her mother is the woman raising her. She isn’t mine anymore, and she certainly isn’t yours.”
“I never gave up my parental rights.”
“Rights? How dare you?” She clamped her fists on her hips and leaned forward. “The only person who had any rights was Elizabeth. She had a right to be raised by adults.”
“So you gave her away like a puppy.”
Catherine flinched as if he’d slapped her. Hot color flushed her cheeks and her big eyes grew bigger. So low he barely caught the words, she said, “Giving up my baby was the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life.”
Her sorrow touched him. He clamped his mouth shut.
“I regret being irresponsible, for having sex without being old enough to know what I was doing. I regret not using birth control. I regret not being able to give her a home. But I made the right decision, and that I don’t regret. Wherever she is, she has two parents who love her.”
At least a fourth of his cases involved missing persons. Many of those clients were adoptees seeking birth parents. A few were parents seeking children they regretted giving away. He had never understood why they couldn’t leave the past alone. Now he felt a glimmer of that urgency to know.
Did his daughter hate him? Did she believe he’d discarded her like unwanted garbage?
“I can find her.” He nodded eagerly. “Give me the date she was born. The hospital, the doctor and the name of the adoption agency. We can find her.”
Catherine cocked her head. “Are you nuts?”
“I’m serious. I can do it. That’s how I—”
“Why would you want to? She has a family, a life, people who love her. We can’t pop into her life and mess things up.”
“If,” he said slowly, “I had known you were pregnant, I’d have married you. You never gave me a chance—or a choice.”
She snorted in derision. “I wouldn’t have married you. Not after what you said at the dance.”
Taken aback, he glared down his nose at her. She had changed more than her appearance. Catherine St. Clair had grown a backbone. One made of pure steel, if he were any judge. His temper flared. The more he struggled to control it, the hotter his blood boiled. “So you got even with me and threw away the kid. Why didn’t you just kill her?”
Bad words, fighting words. He regretted them as soon as they popped out of his mouth.
“Good grief!” She threw up her hands and turned her gaze to the heavens. “Ten minutes ago, you claim you didn’t even know I was pregnant. Now you want to play daddy of the year. Get lost, Easy. Just go away.” She entered the house and slammed the door. The clunk of a dead bolt sounded like a pistol shot.
Easy wavered. He hadn’t accomplished what he set out to do. He didn’t know any more about her involvement with Jeffrey Livman than when he’d arrived. He breathed hard, trying to get back to the present problem.
John Tupper had told a chilling story. After a whirlwind courtship, Roberta Tupper had married Jeffrey Livman. In the year they were married, Roberta had severed contact with her family. Six months ago Roberta had fallen from a rock formation in Garden of the Gods, and died from massive head injuries. There were no witnesses and no physical evidence of foul play. The coroner had declared Roberta’s death accidental.
Except, Roberta had been asthmatic and shunned physical activity such as hiking or rock climbing.
Except, a few weeks before her death, John Tupper had confronted his sister at her place of work, demanding to know why she refused to visit him or his family. He had come away with the impression that Roberta was terrified of her husband.
Except, Livman never notified the family of her death. Livman had Roberta’s body cremated without so much as a funeral or a memorial service. John had learned of the tragedy from the newspaper.
Except, Livman had collected on an insurance policy to the tune of five hundred thousand dollars. In John’s words: “I sell insurance. A childless woman whose husband is young, healthy and employed does not need half a million in life insurance.”
In Easy’s mind, all those excepts added up to murder.
He had hoped, because of their former relationship, Catherine would cooperate. Through her he might obtain a confession of murder, or discover some basis for John to proceed with a wrongful-death suit against his former brother-in-law.
At the moment he considered himself lucky she didn’t shoot him on sight. Stunned by how much her revelation about the baby hurt, he mounted his motorcycle and rode away.
CATHERINE RESTED with her back against the wall until the motorcycle noise faded in the distance. She breathed deeply through her mouth, her chest aching.
On wooden legs, she walked downstairs to her bedroom. From the bedside table she picked up a polished silver frame. It contained a photograph of a little girl with dark hair, dark eyes and a gap-toothed smile. Catherine had clipped the photograph from a magazine and did not know the girl’s name. Over the years, she’d changed the anonymous photographs from baby pictures to this present child.
Not for the first time, she wondered if her insistence on pretending to have a photograph of Elizabeth was a sign of insanity. A means of punishing herself for a guilt she couldn’t shake.
She accepted her action. She knew she’d done the right thing for Elizabeth. At the time, she’d been sixteen years old, little more than a baby herself. She had no right to destroy Elizabeth’s life. Still, the hurt, guilt and shame lingered.
Catherine traced the smiling child’s jawline with a fingertip. Seeing Easy again hurt most of all. The pain of learning he’d joined the army remained burned into her memory. He’d left without so much as a goodbye. He’d left her alone to deal with her pregnancy and her parents and the shame.
Closing her eyes, she remembered vividly the feel of Easy’s skin. He’d been a breathtakingly beautiful boy. She’d filled notebooks with sketches of his face and hands and the alluring musculature of his arms. Tall, slender and graceful, he’d always been ready with a joke and a laugh. A smart aleck, the class clown and captain of the football team—she’d loved him desperately.
A scratching noise startled her. The greyhounds waited at the French doors leading to the lower patio. Oscar lifted a paw and patted gently at the glass.
With a trembling hand, she opened the door for the dogs. “I can’t believe I yelled at him,” she told them. “I never yell.”
She trudged upstairs to the studio. With the shock of seeing Easy fading, she was appalled at how she’d reacted. The rage had erupted within her like a volcano lain dormant for all these years.
She glanced at the telephone. She wanted to call Jeffrey, but what could she say? She’d never told him about her high school love affair or the child she’d given up for adoption. Now that Grandma had passed away, she never talked about it at all.
As much as she longed to put the past behind her, it affected every aspect of her life. Her relationship with her parents remained strained. Although they lived in the house where she’d grown up, she saw them less than once a month. Visiting them remained a chore. She supposed she waited for them to say they were sorry for the way they had treated her.
She remained terrified of pregnancy, terrified of losing yet another child. She didn’t trust birth control devices or drugs. She couldn’t trust fate. No sex until marriage, she’d vowed, and stuck to it all these years.
She couldn’t marry anyone, or even fall in love, unless she trusted him enough to tell him about the baby. How was she supposed to tell anyone when she could not bear to speak of it?
At a worktable, she frowned at a painting for a beginning reader’s book about spiders. In painstaking detail she’d depicted hatchlings bursting from an egg sac. Babies. It occurred to her that the projects that excited her the most dealt with babies in one form or another.
She kept seeing the look of astonishment on Easy’s face. All these years she’d assuaged some of her guilt by blaming him for deserting her. She was rotten, but she always had the comfort of knowing he was more rotten.
He hadn’t known.
How could he have known? She slumped on a stool and rested her chin on her fist. The day after she told her parents about the pregnancy, they’d shipped her off to Arizona. She’d been too humiliated to tell anyone at school. No one had known.
For the first time in twelve years, she faced the hard truth that Easy wasn’t to blame for Elizabeth’s loss. She believed he’d written letters and called; she didn’t put it past her parents to “protect” her. She also believed him impulsive enough to join the army on a romantic whim. Maybe they should talk. Maybe they—
“No!” The dogs lifted their heads to see if she was speaking to them. “I refuse. The past is over. I don’t want to see him or talk to him. I won’t.”
As much as she wanted to drop the matter, pass it off as an unpleasant blip in an otherwise placid life, Easy wore on her mind. He lurked like a shadow while she finished the painting.
The velvet ring box perched atop the fireplace mantel kept drawing her attention. Easy was the long-ago past; Jeffrey represented the future. She called Jeffrey and reached his voice mail. At the tone, Catherine left the message that she needed to see him.
After she hung up, she marched resolutely to the fireplace and opened the ring box. The sapphire seemed to wink at her.
She had a career and a neatly ordered life. She always imagined she didn’t need anything else. Easy’s startling reemergence made her see the lie. She did want a husband and children, but she was afraid, simple as that. Afraid to love, afraid to lose again, afraid of a broken heart.
Bearing an illegitimate child didn’t brand her as a fallen woman. She’d been sixteen, a child who made a mistake. She rubbed her flat belly, dismayed by the emptiness she felt inside.
She slid the ring onto her finger. It was weighty, flashy, alien.
Certainly Jeffrey would understand. What’s more, she felt, he would still love her.
INSIDE THE PEAK CAFÉ, Easy looked toward the booth where he and Trish usually sat. The small café off Academy Boulevard sat halfway between his office and hers, so they often met here for lunch. Trish waggled her fingers at him. He joined her.
“I ordered you a Peak burger,” she said.
“Thanks.” He wondered if he’d be able to eat it.
She searched his face. “Oh God, Catherine doesn’t believe you about Jeffrey Livman.”
A waitress arrived with two iced teas. She smiled at Easy. He tried to smile back at her, but failed. His gut ached as if he’d been kicked.
“We never talked about Livman.”
Trish’s face twisted in a puzzled frown. She dumped Sweet’n Low into her iced tea. “She wasn’t home?”
“She was there all right.” He huffed a long breath, staring at the iced tea, repulsed. He’d been a confirmed soda drinker until Catherine introduced him to the pleasure of a glass of icy cold sun-brewed tea.
“What happened, Easy? Was Livman there? He’s not supposed to see you. You’ll spook him.” She launched into a diatribe about how Easy was supposed to operate. John had tried to convince the police to investigate Roberta’s death, but they’d found no evidence of foul play and there had been no witnesses. Romoco Insurance, which had carried the life insurance policy, had worked with John, but despite the large benefit, they had turned up nothing to suggest Roberta’s death was anything other than an accident. When the coroner declared the death accidental and closed the file, the insurance company had been forced to pay out, and John’s hope for a police in-■ vestigation had died. They needed a confession. The only way to get it would be to lull Livman into believing he’d gotten away with his crime.
Easy waited until his sister ran out of steam. “Livman wasn’t there. Remember when she left town?”
“Yeah, junior year. She moved.”
“Her parents threw her out. She was pregnant.”
Eyes wide, mouth opened, Trish stared at him.
“I didn’t know. We had that big fight before she could tell me. I can’t believe how stupid I was. I should’ve known.”
“I’m an aunt?” A slow smile brightened Trish’s face. Her eyes glowed. “Boy or girl? Name? Did—”
“She gave the baby up for adoption.”
Her smile winked out like a blown lightbulb. “Oh no. How could she do that? It’s your baby, too. Why didn’t she ever tell you? You guys were so much in love. You’d have married her, right? I know you would have.”
“Why don’t you use a bullhorn? I think some of the people in the parking lot didn’t hear you.” Embarrassed as if he were eighteen again, caught doing something nasty, he glanced around the small restaurant to see if anyone paid attention.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. She leaned over the table and lowered her voice. “I thought she was so smart. Why didn’t she tell you?”
He shook his head. “I was mean to her. When I joined the army, she thought I ran out on her.”
The waitress arrived with their lunch. She set a steaming burger covered with onions, mushrooms and Jack cheese in front of Easy. The knots in his belly jerked tighter. He averted his gaze.
Trish stole the dill pickles off his plate, arranged them on her burger, then sliced the sandwich in half. “You better not tell Mom and Dad.” Her voice reverberated with dire warning.
Their parents bemoaned the single status of their children. They wanted them married, and the house filled with grandchildren to spoil. News of a lost grandchild would crush them.
Trish bit into her burger, chewed and swallowed. She wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “You can find your kid. You find adopted kids all the time. Shoot, it’s so easy, I could do it.”
Tempting, very tempting. He imagined his daughter looking like a miniature version of Catherine. She probably insisted on being called Elizabeth, never Lizzy or Beth or Betsy. Maybe she was artistic, she was definitely a brain, pulling straight As.
“You have to,” Trish insisted.
Shaking away the images in his head, Easy grunted irritably. “Right now the problem is Livman. I did some research. Catherine paid cash for her house in Black Forest, so she’s got some money of her own. Livman won’t have to shell out for insurance premiums in order to turn a nice profit.”
Trish shuddered. “You can’t let her marry him.”
He poured ketchup on the plate and swirled a french fry through it.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” he snapped.
She reached across the table and placed a slim hand atop his. “She really got to you, didn’t she?”
“It’s weird. Seeing her again…” He pulled his hand away from hers—he deserved a good kick, not comforting. “She hates me. She thinks it’s my fault she lost the baby. She won’t listen to me.”
“I’ll talk to her. We were friends. Sort of. She’ll listen to me.”
He considered the offer, but discarded it. He suspected one more blast from the past would cause Catherine to run out and buy a shotgun in order to shoot any trespassing Martel on sight. “I have to dig up some dirt on Livman.”
“John already looked. There’s nothing.”
Easy had been impressed by the amount of information John had dug up on his former brother-in-law: schooling, job history, finances, family. None of it, unfortunately, pointed to murder. “There has to be a pattern somewhere. He didn’t decide on the spur of the moment to push Roberta off that rock.”
Trish scrunched her face into an expression of distaste. “You think he killed someone else?”
“Who knows? But I’m thinking Roberta isn’t the first woman he abused.”
Chapter Three (#ulink_14515524-9d8b-542b-86a3-d6031ee08f25)
Easy smiled at the elderly woman who answered the door of the small brick bungalow in Arvada. This quiet neighborhood in a suburb of Denver consisted of tract homes built in the 1950s. Mature elm trees shaded the sidewalks. In this house Jeffrey Livman had grown from a boy into a man.
“Mrs. Vera Livman?” He looked up from the clipboard he carried and glanced at the metal house numbers attached to the bricks next to the door. “I’m from the utility company.” He flicked a finger against the identification badge clipped to the pocket of his coveralls. A computer publishing program, a Polaroid camera and a small laminating machine made producing identification badges and cards a snap. At the moment he was Earl Spencer, employee number 187 with the gas company.
“We’ve got a suspected gas leak in this block. May I come in to check your lines, ma’am?” The lie slipped smoothly from his mouth—he’d used it before. It rarely failed, especially with older women who lived alone. He held up a toy laser gun. Shaped like an oversize television remote, it had an impressive array of dials, switches and lights. It made a terrific “gas detector.” “It won’t take five minutes, ma’am.”
“Gas? I haven’t smelled anything.” She blinked owl-ishly from behind thick bifocals.
“With any luck, you won’t. Safety first, though. It’s nothing to mess around with.”
She unlatched the storm door and pushed it open. “Certainly.”
He walked inside. “Gas leaks are worse in the summertime. People have their windows open so they don’t smell the fumes. Gas builds up in pockets. Is your husband home, ma’am? I’d like to show you both where the—”
“I’m a widow.” She nervously rubbed her hands together.
He noticed the telltale swelling of arthritis in her knuckles. He noticed, too, the guileless trust in her eyes.
A pang of conscience tightened his chest. He preferred gathering information in a straightforward manner. Ask the questions, glean what answers he could, then split. He needed, however, to handle this operation as he did for the occasional bail jumpers he traced—carefully, without alarming friends and family with too many questions. He especially didn’t want to alarm Livman’s mother. No matter what, a mother’s love won out every single time.
He’d discovered a worrisome pattern in Livman’s life. The man apparently felt no qualms about dumping jobs, homes, cars or acquaintances. In the past twenty years, he’d worked for more than a dozen real-estate companies. He’d bought and sold dozens of homes and properties. Nobody seemed to know Livman well. A few people had been surprised to learn he’d been married and was now a widower. Easy suspected if the heat turned up too high, Livman wouldn’t have a second thought about skipping the state. Still, sneaking around, asking covert questions and hoping nobody noticed his interest, was getting on Easy’s nerves.
Mrs. Livman showed him to the basement. It had linoleum flooring, simulated wood panelling on the walls, and that funky, old-house-basement smell. It reminded him of the house where he’d grown up. While the woman hovered anxiously, he played with the laser toy, sweeping it around the gas lines, furnace and water heater. He made lights blink and a few presses of his thumb caused dial indicators to jump.
“Clean as a whistle,” he announced.
“Oh, good! You were scaring me, young man.”
“Sorry. My instrument is sensitive. But everything is operating normally. No leaks, no problems. Thank you for your time, ma’am, and sorry for bothering you.”
She protested heartily that he was no bother at all. At the top of the stairs, he noticed the knob was loose on the basement door. He pretended to lose his grip on his clipboard and while catching it, he gave the doorknob an ex-trahard shake. It rattled loudly.
“You’re about to lose your doorknob, ma’am.”
She sighed heavily. “Sometimes it just seems like this old house is falling apart. Sort of like I am.”
He pulled a Phillips head screwdriver from his work belt. “Just need to tighten the screws, ma’am. Only take a second.”
Her smile beamed pure gratitude; he lowered his head so she couldn’t see his shame. He jiggled the doorknob into place and tightened the screws. As he sensed she might, she acted as if he’d saved her from a burning building. She offered him something to drink. He made a show of checking his watch, but allowed her to coax him into accepting the offer.
In the small living room he pretended to make notes on the clipboard while she fetched him a glass of lemonade. He sipped and declared it the best he’d ever tasted. Then he nodded at a large, framed portrait hanging prominently in the middle of a montage of photographs. It pictured five girls, ranging from around ten to perhaps eighteen, all of them blue-eyed blondes with pretty faces and big smiles. Seated on the lap of the eldest girl was a toddler, a blond, blue-eyed boy.
“Your family?”
“My children.” She practically wriggled with pride. “All grown-up now and on their own. They visit whenever they can.”
“My wife and I have only one boy. He’s a handful. A real little terror.”
“Boys are like that. Always into one thing or another.” She clucked her tongue. “Mischief and pranks and being ornery. I never had a speck of trouble with the girls, but Jeff sure gave me the devil.”
“I bet it was hard,” Easy said sympathetically.
“It sure was! My husband died soon after little Jeff was born, leaving me with six kids and no money. Fortunately I was a skilled legal secretary. I managed to support us. And the girls were a great help with little Jeff.” She giggled. “He’s not so little anymore. But he’s still my baby. He would have come to fix that doorknob, but he’s a very important businessman. He owns a huge real-estate company down south in Colorado Springs.”
A creepy sensation crawled up Easy’s spine. Livman’s sisters were all blue-eyed blondes. Roberta had been a blue-eyed blonde. As was Catherine. While Mrs. Livman waxed poetic about her perfect family and how the girls all rallied to help their mother raise the baby boy, Easy began to wonder if perhaps something more than money had motivated Livman to kill his wife.
CATHERINE HOPPED onto a picnic table. She shook her ponytail and raked damp tendrils of hair off her face. Not a whiff of breeze offered a cooling touch on her hot face, but she didn’t care. She loved Fox Run Park with its winding trails and pine trees. Oscar and Bent loved it, too. Mouths wide open and tongues dragging, the greyhounds lay in a patch of shade, serenely watching the small lake below.
She watched Jeffrey stretch his hamstrings. He’d been avoiding her all week. She’d hurt his feelings during the scene at the Grape and Olive. She’d acted poorly—reacted poorly. He loved her and she had treated his proposal like a personal attack. No wonder he’d been short on the telephone and “busy” all week. It surprised her somewhat that he’d agreed to meet her for a run in the park this morning.
“For an old guy,” she said, “you run pretty good.”
“Old, huh?” He used both hands to swipe sweat off his face. He sat on the picnic table beside her.
She admired the way he looked in his shorts and sleeveless T-shirt, his body toned and fit, his smile relaxed. He worked hard, vowing he’d be a millionaire before his fortieth birthday, but he knew how to play, too.
They liked the same music and movies. Both of them loved their work. Jeffrey enjoyed the outdoors—biking, hiking, running, camping—as much as she did. Most of the time they were so comfortable together it seemed as if she’d known him all her life.
“Can we talk?” she asked. All week she’d been working toward this conversation, seeking the perfect time and place. Now alone in the park, she knew it would never get better than this.
“Uh-oh, sounds serious.”
She couldn’t face him. “It’s about…the other night.”
“Is this a good talk? Or the kiss of death?”
She rested her forearms on her knees. This was hard. She didn’t know anything about relationships. “I owe you an apology. I realize now that what you did was very special. You’re romantic and impulsive, and I do want you to know I appreciate the gesture.”
He snorted. “Didn’t look appreciative. It was a real kick in the gut when you ran out on me.”
She cringed inwardly. She’d had plenty of time to consider what he meant to her. After Easy’s visit, it struck her that she could live her life on hold, or she could really live. A man as good as Jeffrey didn’t come along every day. Considering how difficult it was for her to meet new people, she might never meet another man like him. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. You’re right, we’re good together. We could make a great life.”
He lifted an eyebrow. His lips pursed. “It seems to me, that’s what I told you.”
“Please don’t be difficult, Jeffrey. I’m trying to apologize. To explain. There’s something I have to tell you, but it’s hard.”
“Sounds ominous.”
Maybe it was. She watched crows wheeling lazy circles over the pine trees. Did she love Jeffrey? If love meant respect, affection and a desire for his approval, then she did. It felt far, far different than what she’d felt for Easy. That, she reasoned, had been infatuation, not true, mature love.
“Cath—”
“Give me a minute. This is hard. I’ve never talked about it before.” She licked her lips and swiped sweat off her brow. The only way to say it was to just say it. “When I was sixteen, a junior in high school, I fell in love with a boy. I got pregnant. I gave the baby up for adoption.” She closed her eyes, waiting.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“That’s it” She made herself look at him, seeking clues to his reaction.
“You’ve never told anybody?”
Bemused by his nonreaction, she lifted a shoulder. “Nowadays, the talk shows and magazines make out-of-wedlock babies seem like no big deal. But it was a big deal to me, and still is.” She stretched out her legs and flexed her feet. “It still hurts.”
“Are you scared I’ll call you damaged goods and stomp off?”
It startled her to discover that was exactly what she feared. At hearing it said aloud, it seemed ridiculous. She forced a smile. “I don’t know: Will you?”
He laughed and picked up her hand. “I should have known it was something like this. You’re too sensitive. I’m glad you told me, Catherine. Honest. It explains a lot.”
“Like what?”
“Like why it’s so hard getting close to you.” He scowled in mock ferocity and leaned his face close to hers. “Why you ran out on me when I proposed. I felt like a jerk. Not to mention wasting a bottle of very expensive champagne.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“And I forgive you.” His scowl transformed into a smile. “Does this mean you love me?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but hesitated. She’d loved Easy Martel, passionately, desperately, painfully, joyfully. One of his smiles could leave her floating on air all day long. His touch had set her on fire. She’d placed her heart at his feet and invited him, without reservations, to do with it what he would.
That was a long, long time ago.
With Jeffrey there was no pain, but no mindless joy either. She enjoyed talking to him, but the sound of his voice didn’t set her heart racing. When she imagined a life with him, her visions made practical sense. Jeffrey could do repairs on the house and maintain the cars. He could give her financial advice. She could make sure his laundry was done and he ate properly. They’d keep each other company and make babies. He seemed very safe. Very sensible.
“Yes, I love you, Jeffrey.”
His smile rivaled the sun. He caught her shoulders and planted an exuberant kiss on her lips. “You’ll marry me? Say yes, Catherine. Say yes or I’ll die right here as we speak.”
“Wait a minute! Wait!” She struggled out of his em-brace and half turned to put her back to him. From inside her damp sports bra she worked loose a chain where she carried the engagement ring. The sapphire and diamonds flashed and sparkled with cold fire. She pulled the chain over her head and unfastened the clasp, freeing the ring. For a long moment she stared at the shiny piece of jewelry. Once she committed, there was no turning back. She closed her eyes and envisioned a yard full of laughing children. She handed him the ring.
She offered him her left hand, her fingers extended.
With great solemnity, he slipped the ring onto her finger. It was a perfect fit. “So when are we getting married? Tomorrow?”
She hopped off the table. “No quickies.” She waved her left hand slowly, admiring the beautiful ring. “I want plenty of time to savor my status as a fiancée.” She pointed at the gazebo perched on a rock pile that jutted into the lake. “We’re doing this right. I want to get married there.”
His features tightened. “In the park? Like hippies?”
His reaction dismayed her, but she quickly recovered. He was a special guy, but still a guy, and she doubted if wedding plans interested him in the least. “It’ll be beautiful, and dignified.”
He loosed a martyred sigh. “Let’s run off to Vegas. We don’t need a dog and pony show.”
“I only intend to get married once. I’m not doing it in a cheesy chapel officiated by an Elvis impersonator. We’ll have a proper wedding. If you really object to holding it outdoors, then we’ll do it in church.”
“Whatever you want,” he grumbled.
She poked his chin playfully. “Countless men have survived weddings. You will, too.” She laughed, whirling in a dreamy circle. Oscar and Bent leaped to their feet and posed ready to run. She ruffled their floppy ears. She did love Jeffrey and this was the right decision and they’d live happily ever after—
She spotted Easy Martel.
She stopped so quickly, she stumbled and stared open-mouthed toward the other, smaller lake. Only Easy’s head was visible, his hair as black and glossy as the wings of crows flying overhead. He wore dark sunglasses, but she knew. He spied on her!
She confessed her youthful indiscretion to her fiancé, and then lo and behold, there’s the daddy. Easy’s timing couldn’t be more appalling.
“Catherine?”
“I have to get home. Oscar, Bent, come.” The dogs crowded her legs and she gathered their leashes.
Jeffrey put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “What in the world is wrong with you?”
She sneaked a peek toward Easy. He’d ducked out of sight. The Front Range, encompassing Colorado Springs, stretching from Fountain to the far south and Monument to the north, covered an area more than forty miles long. In the eight months she’d been living here, she hadn’t run into a single person she knew from her childhood. That Easy Martel chose this particular day to be in Fox Run Park was not a coincidence.
“Nothing, nothing,” she said weakly. “I have a million things to do.”
He glowered at his wristwatch. “I cancelled two appointments to run with you this morning. Don’t jerk me around.”
She scuffed her running shoe through a pile of pine straw. “See what happens when I get frazzled? I turn into a flaky artist.” She fished in her fanny pack for her Blazer keys. She tossed them to him. “You drive.”
He eyed her suspiciously, but acted amiably enough as she herded him and the dogs to her Blazer parked above the lake. She began to wonder if she’d conjured Easy out of her guilty conscience.
By the time they reached the park entrance, she convinced herself she hadn’t seen Easy. When she adjusted the air-conditioner vent to blow on her hot face, she noticed in the side mirror a white car pulling out of the park behind them. She thought little of it until they reached Roller Coaster Road and turned right, and the car turned right behind them. The car continued following them south, all the way to Shoup Road where she felt certain it would continue toward the Springs, but it turned after them.
“You haven’t heard a word I said,” Jeffrey complained.
“What?” She clenched her hands on her lap, resisting the urge to turn on the seat to see better the driver behind them. She hadn’t a clue as to why Easy had appeared on her doorstep last week, as she hadn’t a clue as to why he followed her now. A sinking sensation, however, said telling him about the baby they’d made twelve years ago had been a major mistake. He’d been a quick-tempered, impulsive boy with far more energy than good sense. For all she knew, he hadn’t changed. She wouldn’t put it past him to pester her until she told him what happened to Elizabeth.
“What is the matter with you, Catherine?”
She should tell him about Easy. After all, it had been Easy’s surprise visit which had clinched her decision to marry Jeffrey. As her official fiancé, Jeffrey had a right to know about any unresolved issues from her past.
He slowed to turn into her driveway. The white car slowed behind them. Anger boiled up like bubbling soup, infusing her blood, tightening her jaw.
“Don’t talk to me then.” Jeffrey turned the wheel sharply. In the back seat, Oscar and Bent lost their balance. Jeffrey managed to hit every pothole and rut in the driveway. The dogs bounced around, unable to get their feet under them. Bent fell onto the floor.
“Quit driving like a maniac!” Catherine yelled.
He slammed on the brakes and gawked at her.
She covered her mouth with a hand. The dogs grumbled as they rearranged themselves in the back seat. She stared at the side mirror, expecting to see Easy pull in behind them. Clouds of dust hovered like haze over the driveway.
“You were happy and practically singing, then all the sudden you’re acting like a lunatic. You won’t talk to me, then you’re yelling. Is it hormones or something?”
His sexist comment earned him a dark glower.
He drove forward. “I will not have you yelling at me.”
Tell him, she urged herself, but could not find the words. “I guess my nerves are…I don’t know…I’m sorry, okay? Please forgive me.”
He pulled into the garage and shut off the Blazer’s engine.
“I’m so sorry. I desperately need a shower and a cup of coffee and a chance to pull myself together.” She pushed open the door and went around to the side door to let the dogs out. They gave Jeffrey canine equivalents of filthy looks before hopping out of the Blazer and stalking toward the house.
“You can’t treat me like this.”
For a moment he sounded so much like her father—cold and authoritarian—she froze, her mind gone blank. Ridiculous, she told herself. Jeffrey was nothing like her father.
She forced a smile and used her left hand to smooth hair off her face, exaggerating her movements so he noticed the engagement ring. With no sign of Easy or even the sound of a car engine, her agitation faded. Maybe she’d dreamed him up after all. “You’re wonderful and perfect and I do love you.”
He held out her car keys. When she opened her hand, he dropped them onto her palm. “And you’re nuts, lady. What am I going to do with you?” His voice was calm, but lines strained his brow and cheeks.
Catherine swallowed hard. His quiet fury frightened her in a way she couldn’t quite define. “I’m so sorry. Please say you forgive me and kiss me?”
He caught her shoulders in both hands and kissed her.
EASY RAN THROUGH his repertoire of dirty words—after spending four years as a military policeman, he knew plenty. None served to describe how he felt watching Catherine St. Clair kiss a killer.
He crouched at the base of a towering ponderosa pine, and peered through the thick foliage of a scrub oak. He watched Livman grasp Catherine’s shoulders and pull her close. She slid her arms around his waist and her right foot raised until only the toe of her running shoe rested on the ground. Intimate, familiar, comfortable—the sight turned Easy’s stomach.
Catherine patted Livman’s cheek and said something that caused the man to laugh. Easy tensed, wondering if they’d go inside now. Perhaps to shower together, to…
Catherine hopped lightly onto the deck. She wore satin running shorts, electric blue under the sun. Her ponytail bounced around her shoulders. Livman strode to a black BMW parked in the shade of the house. She waved and went inside.
Easy watched Livman guide the BMW carefully around potholes. Livman’s face was taut, angry-looking as he drove past. Easy waited until he was sure the man wasn’t coming back.
Catherine had spotted Easy at the park. That much he knew for certain. What he did not know was if she’d told Livman. And if she had, what she’d told him. Easy considered how she might react when he told her why he’d been tailing them. He suspected she wouldn’t clasp her hands and say, “My goodness, Jeffrey is a killer? Thank you for telling me. I’ll break up with him right away.”
He hefted the envelope he carried. The man was a creep. Other than his mother, few people seemed to like him. Some people acted afraid of him. Former employers all had the same thing to say: Livman talked a good line and had a gift for salesmanship, but he was unethical, dishonest and lazy. He didn’t get along with men, but actively cultivated relationships with women. Livman had been arrested twice, both times for beating girlfriends. Both times, the women dropped the charges.
Catherine could blow this investigation with a single phone call. Easy walked a fine line between protecting her and catching Livman.
The way they’d been kissing decided him. Livman moved fast; Easy had to move faster. He walked up to the house. Guessing she might slam the door in his face, he prepared himself for her anger. He rang the bell.
Catherine surprised him with a smile. A cold smile, true, but it beat having her yell at him. “Are you a stalker? Do I need to get a restraining order against you?”
She hadn’t lost her sense of humor. Her attitude gave him hope. “I’m not stalking you.”
“I see. You just happened to be at the park, and you just happened to follow me home. Coincidence?”
“No coincidence. I was tailing you.”
She laughed softly and swung her head side to side, so her pony tail curled like a lover’s hand around her slender neck. Her laughter pierced his heart, drumming up old emotions. Impulsively, he touched his fingertips to her cheek. He knew his mistake as soon as he felt warm silky skin and her eyes widened. She jerked her head away. She clamped her arms over her breasts, her shoulders hunched.
He crammed his hand in his back pocket “Can I have five minutes of your time? Please?” He turned on his most winning smile. “It’s important.”
Her eyes narrowed and she backed a step into the house. He seized upon what most courts would interpret as an invitation and walked inside. She huffed about his trespass, but didn’t throw him out. His hope flourished. At age sixteen she’d been different from any other girl he knew. Now a grown woman, perhaps she’d prove different than most women when presented with distressing news about a boyfriend.
The skinny dogs hopped off a sofa, ears pricked and eyes suspicious. The slightly larger brown-and-white male raised his hackles. Keeping a wary eye on the dogs, Easy paused by the door.
Catherine sized up her escape routes. Easy blocked the door, but she could reach the sliding glass doors in the adjoining wall, or make it down the stairs. She didn’t sense anything dangerous about him. While they dated he’d always been gentle with her, but a man could change in twelve years.
“I brought something for you.” He held up a white, nine-by-twelve-inch envelope.
Her mouth felt sticky. She’d seen the recent news stories about adoptions gone sour. Courts were favoring parental rights over the rights of children. She’d erred twelve years ago in not telling Easy about the child. She’d lied on the birth certificate about not knowing the father’s name. If he pressed the issue by taking her to court, he could learn what happened to Elizabeth. Or worse, he could fight for custody. Whether or not he successfully contested the adoption was moot. No matter what happened, he would destroy Elizabeth’s life.
He approached. She forced herself to stand fast. She tried not to notice his graceful, loose-hipped walk. She tried not to notice her own pounding heart. “The past is history, Easy. I did the right thing for our baby. Let it rest. Please.”
Her reference to his lost child stabbed through his heart. He clutched the envelope so tightly that paper crunched. He wanted to know what had happened to his daughter. He needed to know. He realized it with a certainty that infused his very bones and laid bare the massive hole in his life created when he lost Catherine.
“Even if you had known, it wouldn’t have made any difference.” Her eyes went soft and pleading. “We were too young to get married and too young to raise a child. I did the right thing. Please accept it.”
He pulled his attention away from her. The spacious front room had been turned into an art studio. The walls were covered with anatomical posters. Easels held partially finished paintings. Old cups, mismatched vases and cans held arrangements of dried weeds and flowers. Cork boards were covered with photographs of animals. Plastic models ranging from dinosaurs to whales perched upon shelves. Bookshelves and tables overflowed with books and magazines. The place smelled of paint and chemicals, overlaid with an odor of something spicy cooking in the small kitchen off the studio.
“You’re an artist?” A stack of children’s books caught his attention. Elizabeth probably adored books.
“I illustrate children’s books.”
“You always did draw good pictures.” He glanced at the dogs. “I thought you were going to be a veterinarian. You were always taking care of sick birds and stuff. Remember the baby magpie?”
He placed the envelope carefully on a table, making certain she noticed it. He wanted to trace the fine sheen of sweat on her flushed skin, and rub her hair between his fingers. He wanted to kiss away all traces of Livman’s kiss from her mouth. He made himself stand in place; his joints ached with the effort.
Her gaze went distant, softening the tense muscles of her face. A trace of a smile curved her lips. “You named it Bosco. That was a dumb name for a bird.”
“Mom almost had a heart attack when she found it in my room. But we saved its life.”
She fussed with a messy stack of magazines. When she finally turned to him, all traces of fear had left her face. Even if Livman weren’t a stone-cold killer, Easy didn’t want the man touching her.
“I’m sorry for how I acted the other day. I don’t usually lose my temper like that. Please forgive me.”
Humbled by her apology, he remembered vividly why he’d loved her so much. Around her, he’d always felt like a man. Even at sixteen, she’d had class. Drawn by her shining eyes, he leaned closer to her, catching a whiff of sweet womanly scent heightened by her exercise-warmed skin. He stared into her eyes, mesmerized by their sparkling azure shadowed by lush brown lashes. Her pupils swelled and her eyelids lowered, darkening her eyes into mysterious pools. He drowned gladly.
Don’t, she thought. Don’t look at him, don’t stand so close, don’t remember….
The warnings in her head proved no defense against the burning intensity of his eyes. He cupped her chin in a gentle hand, lifting her face, and she was powerless, trapped as if in a dream from which her desire to escape was as weak as wisps of fog. His hand was cool against her skin. His breath was warm.
His lips were velvet.
She sprang away, gasping. “Who do you think you are?” In her haste to escape, she struck a table with her hip. Several cans of fixative clattered to the floor. She grabbed blindly for them.
He looked dazed. He raked a hand through his hair, mussing it into spikes.
“It’s over!” She thrust out her left hand, showing him the ring. “I’m engaged. I have a life. You can’t interfere. I won’t let you.”
His mouth fell open. “You can’t marry Jeffrey Livman!”
“I can and I will—” Now she realized the danger. Easy had been doing a lot more than merely following her around. For all she knew his impulsive nature had evolved into an obsessive-compulsive disorder. “How in the world do you know about Jeffrey?”
“I’m a private investigator.” He spoke in a rush, his voice harsh. “I’m not interfering in your life, I’m trying to save it. Jeffrey Livman murdered his wife, and now he’s targeted you. I knew you wouldn’t take my word for it, so I put together some hard information. It’s in the envelope. Read it.”
She wished she knew as much about mental disorders as she did about animal anatomy. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to handle his delusions. She clamped down on the urge to shout and threaten. If she angered him, he’d eventually get around to figuring out how to destroy her in court. “Okay, I’ll read it.”
The dogs crowded her legs. Oscar growled, an ominous rumbling from deep in his chest. She rested a hand on his head.
“I have a lot to do,” she said. “Is there a number where I can reach you?”
“Don’t blow me off, Tink. This isn’t a joke. Jeffrey Livman is a stone-cold killer. He collected half a million dollars from his wife’s death. He’ll do the same thing to you.”
“I’m sure you only mean the best for me.” She nodded, hoping to impress him with a show of credulity. “I’ll read your stuff. But I do have a lot to do and I really can’t ask you to stay. I’ll call you. I promise.” After she called her attorney and found out what kind of options she’d have in a legal battle. “I promise, Easy. I will call you.”
She held her breath, waiting. The look he gave her ripped at her heart and made her mouth burn where his kiss had touched her. But he left her home.
She sprang after him and threw the dead bolt. She eyed the envelope he’d left behind. If he’d turned into a deranged stalker intent on destroying her life, she didn’t know what she’d do.
Chapter Four (#ulink_518b7ac6-c0af-5b3c-b7cf-74866bfbef73)
Catherine glared at the envelope Easy had left behind. She scrubbed at her lips where his touch lingered, taunting her with old memories and hurts. She refused to remember how much she’d loved him—how much he’d loved her.
Oscar and Bent eyed her curiously.
“I don’t know what his game is,” she told the dogs, “but I’m not playing. He’s crazy. Completely out of his mind.”
Jeffrey murdered his wife. The accusation hung in the air like an odor.
He’d collected proof her fiancé was a murderer—ridiculous! Easy must consider her a complete dummy if he thought for a moment he could march in here and disrupt her life. She snatched up the envelope. A string looped around a paper button held the flap shut.
She stomped into the kitchen. She opened the cabinet under the sink and dropped the envelope into the garbage can. With her foot, she closed the cabinet and swiped her hands in good riddance.
She hummed old show tunes, the notes fierce in her attempt to not think about Easy, while she showered. Once clean, she used a towel to scrub at her wet hair while she sat on the edge of the bed. Her attention wandered to the framed photograph of Elizabeth’s substitute. The anonymous child’s dark eyes seemed to mock her: He never lied to you.
“I never caught him in a lie,” she whispered in rebuttal. “There’s a big difference.”
Scrubbing her hair, she wandered restlessly around the bedroom and out to the lower-level family room. The room was stark, far too large for the lone recliner and television set that furnished it. Old-fashioned panelling on the walls reminded her of the rumpus room in the basement of Easy’s parents’ home.
This house wasn’t pretty and it needed extensive remodeling, but it was home. She liked it fifty times better than the pristine, overdressed, oversize showplace where her parents lived. Catherine wondered if this house had appealed so much to her because it reminded her of the Martels’ place over on Uintah Street.
Troubled, she dried her hair and left it loose. After slathering moisturizing lotion on her hands and arms, she slid on her engagement ring.
She frowned at the flashy ring. Jeffrey murdered his wife.
Easy didn’t even know Jeffrey, who had never been married much less murdered anyone. Easy couldn’t know Jeffrey. The two men were as different as fire and water, and had nothing in common. Except he did know Jeffrey—somehow.
She went upstairs to the kitchen and jerked open the cabinet under the sink. Easy claimed to be a private eye. She found it difficult to reconcile the memory of a sports-crazy, impulsive, restless boy with a methodical, dogged investigator. It made as little sense as his insistence that her fiancé had murdered a woman.
Easy wanted Elizabeth. Now that made sense. She wondered how far he’d go to find their daughter.
She slammed the cabinet shut and studied the kitchen. The old cabinets showed their age. The walls had been painted an odd shade of blue-green by the previous owners. When her next royalty check came in, she intended to redo the kitchen. She had plans for this house, plans for her life. Easy threatened her future, her happiness and her hard-won peace.
The telephone rang, startling her. Fearing it might be Easy, she waited for the answering machine to screen the call. Margaret’s brash voice insisted Catherine pick up the line.
Catherine snatched up the telephone. “I’m here! What’s up?” She noticed the light blinking on the answering machine, indicating she had other messages.
“I’m glad I caught you. We have a problem.”
Catherine chuckled, partly in relief because it was Margaret and not Easy, but mostly because Margaret thrived on crises and problems. “As long as you don’t make me speak in front of a crowd, I can handle it.”
“Does a press conference qualify as a crowd?”
It took a few seconds for her agent’s meaning to sink in. Catherine nearly choked. “Margaret! You know I hate publicity. I can’t do tours and press things. They make me crazy.” The mere idea of having to speak to a group of strangers filled her belly with ice.
“Settle down. You won’t actually have to say anything. All you have to do is stand there and look cute. You are cute, aren’t you? Do your publicity photos do you justice?”
Catherine groaned and sank onto a chair. “Spill it, Margaret. What’s going on?”
“I’ve been on the phone with Doc Halladay’s publicist The good doctor wants to meet you.”
Catherine had illustrated stories, books and articles for dozens of writers, none of whom she’d met face-to-face. She’d spoken to many of them on the telephone or via fax transmissions, but she’d never done a job that required personal contact. “Whatever for?”
“We’re dealing with television people. They spend the majority of their lives in meetings and at lunch. They like personal contact.”
“Do I have to go to New York? Or Los Angeles?”
“Actually…Halladay is coming to you. He wants to see you in your natural environment, so to speak.” Margaret paused, dramatically. “He wants to do a segment for his show. Your studio, where you live, blah-de-blah.”
“No.” Catherine shook her head vehemently.
“You don’t have a choice, sweetie. Publicity is part of the deal, and since Doc Halladay is the star, he calls the shots.” Another dramatic pause. “If you don’t do this, the deal is off.”
Catherine gazed haplessly at her studio. Filled with secondhand furniture and found treasures, it seemed amateurish and messy, more like a child’s playroom than the workplace of a serious artist. A real artist had handcrafted beechwood worktables, custom lighting, overhead projectors and chaise longues. Catherine kept brushes in old coffee cups and used pushpins to hang photographs on the walls. As soon as Doc Halladay saw her home, he’d know Catherine was a fraud.
‘‘Doc Halladay is rich. He probably has servants. I don’t even have good china. How can I let him in my house?”
“You don’t have to impress the man with furs and feather boas. You’ve already impressed the hell out of him with your work. Trust me, he’s not going to do anything to make you look bad. It’ll be fun, sweetie. He’s a good sport and his people are total professionals.”
Fun…Compared to displaying herself in public, breaking her fingers with a hammer would be fun. “Does this mean I have to do a book tour, too?”
“Mmm. In a word, yes.”
Catherine groaned again. “This is getting totally out of hand. I don’t know if I can do this. I’m so stupid around strangers. My hands sweat and my face breaks out. I stutter!”
“Relax. Think about the money. Tons and tons of money. Think about awards and prestige and how this will establish you as the artist of the decade. This could be your life’s work.”
Catherine pressed a hand flat between her breasts. “My heart is pounding already. I feel sick. You don’t know how terrified I am of public speaking. I can’t do it, Margaret.”
“Yes, you can and you will. Even the best actors get stage fright. Tell you what, I’ll come out to Colorado. I’ll hold your hand. We’ll find you a hypnotist or some drugs. Whatever it takes.”
“There’s no way to get out of it?”
“I’m afraid not. You’ll do fine. I’ll make sure you do fine. Just keep thinking about the money.”
Feeling as if she’d been handed down a sentence of execution, Catherine closed her eyes and rubbed her aching temples. “We’ll figure out something,” she said weakly.
“That’s my girl!”
“When does Doc Halladay want to meet me?”
“Nothing firm yet. I got the impression it’ll be sometime next month. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to prepare. You’ll be all right with this, sweetie, trust me. Who knows, you might find out you’re a ham at heart and you love it.”
“That’ll take more than hypnotism, it’ll take a miracle.” She wondered if it were possible to hire a stand-in to impersonate her.
After she hung up the telephone, she realized she hadn’t told Margaret about her engagement to Jeffrey. Nor had she mentioned Easy Martel—
She gasped and caught the base of her throat with both hands. Easy! She envisioned him embroiling her in a court case over parental rights. Tying her up with lawyers and depositions. The story would show up in the newspapers. Or in the tabloids! Doc Halladay’s sole purpose in life was teaching children. He didn’t preach religion, but he did set a good example of respect, clean living and character. He wouldn’t like his book illustrator publicly unmasked as a liar who denied a man his parental rights.
Oscar nudged her knee with his nose. He eyed her with an expression of concern. She ruffled his silky ears.
“What do I do? I can’t ruin Elizabeth’s life just to keep Easy off my back.”
She wanted advice, someone to talk to. Her parents might be interested in her news about getting married and her major book contract, but they always refused to listen to anything about the baby she’d given up. She wished desperately that her grandmother were still alive. She’d been able to tell Grandma everything and anything.
That left only Jeffrey.
She cupped Oscar’s muzzle in her hand. “What’s your gut feeling, old boy? Will Jeffrey have a fit if he finds out about Easy?”
Oscar’s skinny tail whipped against a table leg with a loud whup-whup-whup.
“Dogs have it so easy. No moral dilemmas. Just eat, sleep and chase bunnies.” She turned her attention to the answering machine.
The message was from Jeffrey. He told her he had a big deal about to fall apart and he had to meet with his clients and the finance officer. He said the negotiations would probably run late, so he could not see her this evening. He promised to make reservations at a fine restaurant for a proper engagement celebration. “I love you!” he announced cheerfully before he rang off.
“Love you, too,” she muttered. He’d been so accepting about her revelation. She asked too much for her fiancé to be so accepting about an old love shaking up her life.
Grandma had told her often: “You can’t hide from life, honey. Life always finds you.” Grandma knew Catherine’s first response to most crises was to bury her head in the sand and hope the problem went away.
Easy wasn’t going away.
Knowing she’d have to deal with him, and sooner was better than later, she returned to the kitchen. She retrieved the envelope from the trash. Feeling like Bluebeard’s wife, she opened the envelope and spilled its contents onto the countertop.
TELEVISION AND MOVIES portrayed private eyes living fast-paced, adventure-filled existences, with an endless parade of sexy dames, car chases and gun battles. In reality, Easy didn’t own a gun and didn’t want to; he spent the majority of his time either on the computer researching databases or waiting. Waiting for subjects to do something interesting; waiting for bureaucrats to decide if he had a right to public information; waiting for clients to pay their bills.
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