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“It’s good to finally see things clearly,” he said. “We had a raging wildfire before you came to town, and the smoke hindered visibility.”
“What do you know. Usually things heat up after I enter a place.”
She shouldn’t have said that. Dumb, stupid Jinni. Two people had died, as far as she knew. Wanda Cantrell and Morris Templeton.
She quickly added, “Is everyone safe?”
“Dee Dee Reingard’s and Old Man Jackson’s homes burned down. And no one knows where Jackson is. He’s gone missing, just like Guy.”
“What about the two bodies that were found?”
Max glanced at her, the slight wind mussing his hair. “My sister-in-law and her boy toy? The cops suspect my younger brother torched them, I think. But Guy hasn’t been around to deny his involvement with the fire. And then there’re those invisibility rumors started by Linda Fioretti, Guy’s fellow teacher. Everyone in town is buzzing about how they think my fool of a brother’s peeping in their windows or stealing socks from their dryers. But you know that much already, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Jinni wasn’t used to men who’d call her out, keep her honest. As a biographer, she tended to ask a lot of leading questions. Maybe Max would be more of a challenge than she’d first thought. “Does the sheriff think Guy murdered Wanda and Morris out of jealous rage?”
“That’s their story.” His jaw muscles twitched, his long fingers dug into his arms. “They don’t realize that Guy hasn’t a violent bone in his body. Sure, he’s scatterbrained and intense when it comes to anything scientific. We were both like that, even as kids. But Guy—” He clamped shut his mouth.
The Montana night enveloped them: pine needles scented the aimless drift of air, bringing with it the faint twang of country music from Joe’s Bar.
Jinni touched his shoulder, allowed her hand to brush down his biceps. There were some muscles under that shirt.
Whoo. She loved good arms.
“No wonder you were fishing for the worm tonight,” she said.
He shot her that miffed glance again.
“Drinking tequila, Max. It’s a colorful way of referring to that worm at the bottom of the bottle?”
“I don’t drink that much.”
“Really? You seem to handle liquor well.” She laughed. “What am I saying? You’re a big guy. I’m sure it takes a lot to affect you.”
“I walked into the bar affected,” he said, shaking his head. “And here I am, laying all this frustration on you. I should’ve just kept my trap shut about Michael, my business, Guy….”
There it was again, that slight trailing off at the end of his brother’s name, just like a mysterious parchment note where someone has written a horrifying phrase: “Something is outside my door, something is coming for me…” and the ink trails off into a tragic, last-breath squiggle down the page.
Having a brother suspected of murder must’ve been equally horrifying. Jinni could sympathize with Max; she knew firsthand what it was like to worry about a sibling.
He hadn’t shrugged off her hand on his arm—not yet—so she began to stroke back and forth with her index finger, feeling a line of sinew beneath the weave of his shirt.
He gave a short, seemingly bitter laugh. “I’m a terrible brother. I must be, because there’re times when I can’t help thinking that Guy might’ve done it.”
Jinni felt her eyes widen. Lord help her, but the biographer, the researcher, the curious monster within was screaming, “What a story! This is your next subject!”
She ignored the ambition, the excitement of catching on to an exclusive opportunity like Max Cantrell—a multimillionaire recluse who didn’t talk to the press.
Still, she couldn’t help asking, “What makes you think your brother could murder his wife and Morris Templeton?”
“Nothing. Just a doubt, a what-if.” He glanced at her. “Told you. I’m a terrible human being.”
Here he was, suffering a major philosophical dilemma while she sat next to him in a Dior ensemble. The juxtaposition couldn’t have been more ironic if she’d been the main character in a Kafka story.
She was as useless to Max as she was to Val, having no idea how to handle a situation more pressing than choosing between two soirees on the same night. But that’s what happened when you distanced yourself from emotion and concentrated on things that didn’t matter so much.
Life hurt much less that way.
Yet somehow Max Cantrell was forcing her to face the music. Face the child who’d been so afraid of her mother’s disappointment that she’d followed in her shallow footsteps.
“You’re not terrible,” was all she could think to say. “You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t have doubts.”
“Yeah, I suppose so. But I seem to have more than my share of trust issues. My brother, my son…”
Trailing off again. Jinni wondered whom he was cutting from the list. That ex-wife?
He lay back on the grass, arms tucked under his head as he closed his eyes. As he reclined, she trailed her fingers down his chest, letting them rest there, feeling his heart beat through her own skin. She watched him for a second, hoping he’d switch from Melancholy Max to a gear more befitting a lover’s sky.
She waited. Nothing happened.
“Welcome to my midlife crisis,” he said. “Can’t say I know how to handle one, either, but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to dump all my problems on my nemesis from the MonMart parking lot.”
“Hey,” said Jinni, finally taking her hand away and lying down next to him, using his coat as a blanket, “I’m all ears.”
And all worked up, truth to tell.
She listened to him breathe, his chest rising and falling, making her want to rest her head on him, seeing the world float up and down.
He turned his head in her direction. “You won’t know about hitting that midlife brick wall for a while.”
“You flatter me so.”
“You’re…?”
“Yes, forty. And not afraid to admit it.”
She hated her age. It made her want to sit on a park bench, pretending to feed the pigeons like a nice old maid should, and trip all the premenopausal women as they walked by.
“That’s right,” she continued. “Forty’s just a number.”
“You don’t look your age at all. I thought you were maybe thirty-five, thirty-six.”
She gasped, trying to ignore the pain of reality. Even her fake, delusional age was over the hill.
So, now that he probably thought her skin was crumbling to dust right before his eyes, what were the chances of him rolling over and planting a kiss on her? Probably nil.
Joy. Now she knew what all the average girls in school felt like. You know, the ones who were always the guys’ best friends, the ones who listened to the boys’ dating problems while slowly wilting away inside?
Bother with this. Jinni turned on her side, propping her head up with one hand while resting the other on her hip. Very come-hither. It had to work.
Make your move, honey.
Max just grinned at her. “You’ve turned out to be a good listener. I’m glad we met up tonight.”
Oh, brother. “Glad to help. Is there anything else you’d like to do?”
“You mean chat about? Nah. I’m all talked out.”
Okay. He wasn’t getting it, and as a result, she sure wasn’t getting it.
She decided to change tack, lowering her voice to hit-him-over-the-head-with-passion mode. Used only in emergency situations.
“Isn’t it romantic out here? The stars, the moon, the fact that we’re all alone?”
He made an uh-uh sound. Perfect. He’d bared his soul to her, but he couldn’t bare anything else?
Jinni flopped to her back again, losing hope. She didn’t have it anymore. Forty had sucked all the attractiveness out of her. Rumor had already shaped her into Granny Ankle-High-Nylons.
She was done for.
Once again, her gaze lingered over his length. The wingtip shoes, the crisp slacks, the stylish tie. Sigh.
Wait a second.
“Max?”
“Yeah.”
“Wouldn’t a Barbra Streisand song make the moment?”
She held her breath, hoping, praying….
“Bently likes her. Sometimes he’ll throw on one of her CDs, so I’ve got no choice but to listen.”
Bently? Who was Bently?
Ahh. Maybe this was the problem. Maybe Max wasn’t touching her because he was…confused. That would explain it.
Midlife crisis, indeed.
He jerked to a sitting position. “No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I’m not a Barbra Streisand fan. Because I think I know what you’re asking and… God, is that what you were asking?”
“Just wondering.”
He cursed.
“Hey, don’t revert to sailor speak just to prove your manhood.”
“I can’t believe you thought…”
Jinni sat upright, too. “And I can’t believe you think I look thirty-six!”
“You said you didn’t care about age.”
“I don’t.” She smoothed her hair, trying to seem glacial. “Age is immaterial.”
He cursed again, this time with a slight amount of mirth.
She was about to chide him for his course language, but the whole alpha talk bit was lighting her fire. She liked it when he showed some raw emotion.
Too bad he couldn’t extend some of that passion in her direction.
Once again she felt inadequate. So she did the only thing that could cheer her up—reminding herself that she was wanted.
“You remind me of Jordan Clifton,” she said.
“Who?”
Jinni smiled tolerantly at him. “The movie star with five films in the top ten list of worldwide grosses?”
Max shrugged, probably still smarting from the whole “gay” misunderstanding.
“Well, you’ve got the same dimpled chin. When we were engaged—”
“You were engaged to a movie star?”
“Three, actually. But when we were engaged…”
He wiped a hand over his face and slumped back down to his reclining position. “Incredible.”
Good, she’d gotten a rise out of him. Could she hope that his frustration stemmed from the slightest bit of male jealousy?
Jinni followed his lead, leaning over him. “You don’t want to hear about other men, do you?”
Her heart jumped when he took her chin between his index finger and thumb, pulling her toward him. Right next to his mouth.
“Quiet, Jinni. Why don’t you just be quiet.”
Now this was more like it.
Chapter Four
He had her now.
She hovered over him, pouty lips inches from his own, her breath warming his skin as his fingers framed her chin.
