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“None for days.”
“Good—we stopped him before he got started.” Then he snapped his fingers. “Do you have a phone card?”
“A—” Sarah stopped herself from repeating his words, like a lost child. “I do, as a matter of fact. I’ll call the phone company.”
When she hung up this time, he had picked up the framed photograph she kept on the table by the couch. “Is this your brother? Boyfriend?”
“James Daley. I…worked with him.”
“James Daley, the journalist?”
“That’s the one.”
Luke gave her a searching look. “Daley’s pretty good. I like his stuff for Events.”
“James always told the story as he saw it.”
“Told?”
Sarah braced herself to say the words she’d practiced so often. “He was killed by a stray bullet in Afghanistan, about seven months ago.”
“You were there?”
“I was his photographer.”
He set the frame gently back on the table. “I should know your work, too, shouldn’t I?”
“Not necessarily—my name is usually in the small print at the end of the article.”
“So when you took pictures of Jen and Erin, you were doing us a favor—not just out to make a quick buck.” Luke’s cheeks reddened. “I apologize for misunderstanding.”
“Not at all.” Sarah carefully carried her drink between her fingers and sat on the couch beside him. “Saturday wasn’t the easiest day you’ve ever had.”
“Still…”
“I was just glad to get the shots. And the pictures were everything I hoped. But he took them when…” Her mind’s eye flashed back to last night, to a knee in her back, the sudden impact with graveled ground, rough hands dragging her portfolio out from under her body.
“Oh, damn.” She put her head back, willing the tears not to fall.
Luke took her glass away, then his arms surrounded her, nestled her against his firm chest as he stroked her hair, avoiding the bandages. “It’s okay, Sarah,” he whispered. “It’s okay to cry.”
Sarah resisted the urge to pull away. She let her cheek rest on him, breathed in the clean scent of his black T-shirt. How long had it been since anyone had put their arms around her? Longer than she could remember.
Longer, still, since being held had felt so right. For all his talent and intelligence—or maybe because of his exceptional gifts—James had never been a comforting person. He’d accepted the truth, dealt with it head-on and expected everyone around him to do the same. Sarah had prided herself on meeting that expectation, on functioning independently. Until James died.
Since then, her life seemed to consist of fragments—like the shards of a broken mirror—none of which she could fit together. And there was no one who cared enough to help her try.
So she stayed quiet for just a few minutes, soaking up the solace Luke offered. Long before she was ready, she sat up out of his arms and summoned a smile. “Thanks.” She pushed her hair back with fingers that shook. “You really are a good friend to have around.”
His hands lingered on her shoulders. “Are you okay?”
Sarah nodded. “I’m fine, now. Let me change clothes and get the key for the car. I’ll be just a few minutes.”
He toasted her with his glass of juice. “Take your time.”
But she hurried through the process of dressing, avoiding her reflection as much as possible. She’d been assaulted twice before—in other countries, by people involved in activities they didn’t want recorded. She knew how to survive the pain, realized that the bruises would fade, the scrapes would heal.
Ignoring the ache in her ribs and shoulders, she found dark brown linen pants to cover the bandages on her legs and a light, long-sleeved tunic which did the same for her arms.
The problem came with her hair. She couldn’t lift her arms much above her waist, let alone hold a brush tight enough to pull out tangles and knots.
Did she dare…?
As she stepped back into the living room, Luke glanced up from a copy of Events. “You look much better.”
“I’m feeling much, much better.” She swallowed hard against her nerves. “I have only one more favor to ask.”
“What’s that?”
Sarah held out the brush. “Would you?”
“Be glad to.” He stretched to his feet. “Sit in one of those tall chairs at the counter.”
Standing behind her, he took the brush and picked up the weight of her hair. “You’ve got a handful of curls here, don’t you?” His gentle tug on the ends was more delicate than she could possibly have managed. Sarah barely felt the pull on her bandages.
“I usually keep it braided and out of the way. I don’t know what happened last night—how it came undone.” The tension in her shoulders began melting away as he stroked her hair back from her face. She closed her eyes.
“Do you want me to braid it for you?”
“Can you?”
“I braid Erin’s and Jen’s all the time. It’s a survival skill for fathers of little girls.”
“What are they like, your girls?”
He chuckled. “Erin’s the wild one—adventurous, independent, stubborn. She goes after what she wants, no matter the risk. She likes the ocean and bicycles and science books.”
“Does she take after her dad, maybe?”
He went completely still for a second, then resumed brushing. “Sure. Jen’s gentler, quieter, but just as stubborn when she wants to be. She plays dolls and has tea parties, wants to hear fairy tales and dress up like a princess.”
As she had been on her mother’s wedding day. “How old are they?”
“Erin will turn seven this summer. Jen’s four.” Luke put the brush on the counter. “Here goes.”
He touched the crown of her head softly, gathering hair, tugging a bit against the bandage, but Sarah hardly noticed. The play of his fingers on her scalp set up small waves of pleasure, like the lap of the sun-heated ocean in a tidal pool on the beach. She took a deep breath and released it slowly. Now she knew why women enjoyed having their hair styled. So relaxing, so soothing, so…so seductive.
“Finished.” He draped the end of the braid over her shoulder. “Do you have a band?”
She slipped it off her fingers, struggling to stay casual. “If you ever get tired of being a cop, you should consider braiding hair for a living. Thanks.”
When she faced him, he’d stepped back and hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “You’re welcome—it was my pleasure. Did you find your keys?”
He was ready to go. Much as she hated to end her time with him, she had no right to keep Luke in her life. “They’re right here in the drawer.” She grabbed the jangle of keys and a hat off the peg by the door. “Now, I’m all set!”
Or she could pretend she was, anyway.
CHAPTER THREE
LUKE PUT ON his sunglasses when they got into the truck, then frowned at the thought he was using them as a mask.
But the truth was, he’d enjoyed brushing Sarah’s hair. Too much. The gold-brown curls were softer than they looked, like water almost, sluicing over his hands. She’d relaxed as he brushed and braided, reminding him of a kitten being stroked…and all at once he realized his body had responded to that idea with more interest than he’d have believed possible.
Since Kristin…since Kristin and Matt…he hadn’t thought about sex. But the nape of Sarah’s neck was soft, vulnerable. Her skin was smooth and tan, the sound of her breath like a soft wind in the trees. For just a second, he wanted…something he had no right to. Again.
He took a deep breath. “Where’s your car?”
“Sawyer’s Photo Shop. Not too far from the police station.” She shivered as she spoke.
“He won’t be there now.” For just a second, Luke covered her hand with his own. “And if he is, I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you or anybody else for a good long time. Okay?”
She had a sweet, sunny smile, underneath the bruises. “Okay.”
He drove to the bank first, waiting while Sarah arranged to put a stop on any checks. She’d found her birth certificate and insurance papers before they left the condo and she used them to get a new driver’s license, which would allow her to open another checking account when she was ready.
As they waited for a traffic light to change, Sarah shifted on the seat. “Your hair’s a little long for one of Myrtle Beach’s finest. Have they updated police regulations?”
Luke smiled. “I’ve been on special duty—hanging with the beach regulars for the past year or so, keeping an eye on their less…aquatic…activities.”
“A surfer dude?”
“Nope. The word dude is out with serious surfers. They’re proud of their life in opposition to the mainstream.”
Sarah nodded. “I’ll remember. Surfing for a living sounds like a good job, though. Low stress.”
“Oh, yeah. Especially in January, wearing a cold wet suit and freezing my…nose…off.”
“Not your idea of fun?”
“My idea of fun in January is a fireplace, a TV football game, and a bowl of popcorn.” He held the picture of that scene in his mind’s eye—Erin napping on the armchair, Kristin in the curve of his arm, almost dozing as she nursed Jen. Less than two years ago, he’d lived a perfect life.
“Luke? Luke!” Sarah’s voice brought him back.
The brakes squealed as he automatically stomped the pedal, bringing the truck to a stop with about two inches to spare behind the Mercedes ahead.
Sarah was staring at him, her eyes wide. “She pulled right in front of you, but I didn’t think you’d seen.”
Luke wiped a hand over his face. “You were right. I was…my mind had—”
She nodded. “I can guess. Good thing you have quick reflexes.”
A honk from behind jerked their attention to the green traffic light. Luke gritted his teeth and accelerated carefully.
They arrived at Sawyer’s Photo Shop without any more stupidity on his part. Sarah directed him around the back of the painted concrete block building, where an olive-green Jeep and a full-size Cadillac shimmered in the morning sun. Luke cut the engine. “I’m betting yours is the Jeep.”
She accepted his help to climb down from the truck’s high seat. “Brilliant deduction, Officer Brennan.”
“Corporal First Class.” He grinned as she stuck out her tongue at him, then followed her to the Jeep. “I checked with Hank Jordan, the investigating officer. They dusted for prints—no results yet. But if the guy has your keys, why didn’t he take the car? Jeeps are a high-return item in the stolen-car market.”
“Maybe he didn’t like the way it drove?”
He gave her question the chuckle it deserved. “Even if he didn’t want it, I expect he knows someone who would. So…”
Using the tips of her fingers, Sarah opened the Jeep door. A wall of heat broke over them. “I’d say this car hasn’t been anywhere since I parked it yesterday about three o’clock.”
“And the question would be, why not?” Luke couldn’t come up with an answer that made sense.
“If we don’t know, I guess there’s nothing we can do.” Sarah stared into the interior of the Jeep for a few seconds, then seemed to shake herself free. “So life goes on. You can get some sleep and I can make some more prints. Good thing I left the negatives in the files.”
“What I have to get first is a haircut. I go on regular patrol duty starting Wednesday night.”
“No more surfing?”
He shook his head. “Back to real life.”
She nodded. “I’ll bring the pictures by your house sometime this week, okay?”
With her hat brim shading the bruises, bandages and scrapes, her face looked almost normal—sweet and calm and, as he remembered noticing on the beach, sad. Luke was suddenly reluctant to say goodbye.
But his life was too much of a mess to mix with anybody else’s. “I’m home most afternoons.” He stepped back, and sunlight fell on the ground between them. “Are you sure you feel like driving? Those hands have to hurt.”
“I’m fine—thanks to a little white pill. Plus an automatic transmission and power steering. No problem.” Her hesitation in getting up into the Jeep belied her confident statement.
Luke gave her a lift at the elbow. The bones in her arm were as light as a bird’s. “I’ll…be in touch if anything turns up on the case.”
“Thanks.” She put the key in the ignition and the Jeep puttered to life. Luke stepped back as the vehicle started to move. At the edge of the parking lot, Sarah lifted her hand and glanced at him in the rearview mirror before driving away. He waved, but wasn’t sure she saw him.
Alone again, he studied the ground around him, wondering if Jordan had missed anything when he’d checked out the site of the mugging.
Fifteen minutes later, he doubted it. If the gravel had ever held any clues, they’d been scuffed away.
That left him with no theory about who’d attacked Sarah Randolph. And with the rest of a long, hot Monday to fill.
Not to mention the rest of the summer…and the rest of his life.
THE FLORIDA SUN beat against exposed skin with an almost physical force. Kristin Brennan shifted a little on her chaise longue and prepared to sink deeper into pure indolence.
“Strawberry daiquiri for the lady?”
