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“We did all that.”
Chelsea stepped nearer the chair. A sense of intense cold caused her to shiver.
The times when she was requested to attend a murder scene bothered her for days afterward. Maybe it was imagination, but she seemed to feel the anger and the agony, the tragic death scene that had resulted from uncontrolled emotion. A psychic she’d once met on a case had assured her it was real, that the energy caused by strife and grief lingered long after the deed.
Chelsea felt it now—the hot fury, then the cold, calculating anger, the sudden fear of the woman, the need to protect the child—
“It was for the child,” she said. “Whatever started the conflict, it was for the child. The victim wanted to protect her baby.”
“From what?” Holt asked, giving her a curious look.
“Scandal, perhaps. Or maybe he wanted her to get rid of it and she refused.”
As soon as Chelsea said the words, she knew they were true. The cold in the room drove right down to her soul. It lingered near the chair where the librarian had died, like a ghost hovering there, silently imploring them to discover the truth and thus find her killer.
She stared at the worn chair. For a wealthy person the woman had lived very simply. The chair, table and lamp indicated this was her favorite reading spot.
A small stain marred the upholstery, but that was the only evidence of the violence that had taken place. Since the bullet hadn’t exited, there was little bleeding and no splatter on the walls and floor.
A very neat murder with a small-caliber weapon such as a woman might have in the house to protect herself from intruders. The man would have known about the gun. Maybe he gave it to her.
“You ready to go?” the deputy asked.
Wrapping her arms across her chest, she nodded. “Yes, I’m ready.”
The return trip was short. The deputy parked on Main Street in front of the sheriff’s office. After he went inside, she realized she had a half hour before she met with Pierce. Seeing a diner up the street, she went there and ordered a cup of coffee.
A newspaper had been left on a chair at the table. She picked it up and read the headline: Suicide in Rumor.
The story recounted Harriet Martel’s life in the town and how she’d transformed the library into a quiet oasis of learning. She’d instituted several story hours for different age groups and arranged for tutoring sessions between volunteers and students who needed help.
All in all she appeared to have been a good person, apparently dedicated to her job. Who had made her forget her basic values? Who was the man she had so foolishly loved?
Colby Holmes slid into the chair opposite her. “I want to talk to you,” he said.
“Mr. Holmes, you have my sympathy about your aunt, but the work I do in a case like this is strictly confidential. You’ll have to ask the sheriff—”
“In a case like what?” he interrupted.
She gazed at him without answering.
“If it was suicide, why all the secrecy? Coffee,” he practically snarled at the teenage waitress, who scurried off in the face of his anger. He turned back to Chelsea. “Why an autopsy in the first place? Why call in the state’s top forensic expert to perform it?”
She took a drink and watched him warily over the rim of the thick white cup.
The waitress plunked a mug and a cream pitcher on the table and departed.
“Murder, that’s why,” he answered the questions he raised. “What have you found out? I know you know more than you’re telling. She was my relative. I have a right—”
“What’s going on here?” Pierce asked in a low tone. He stopped by the table and leaned over Colby. “Holt Tanner says you’re interfering in the investigation and possibly tampering with the crime scene. That could earn you several years in the pen.”
Colby gave the mayor a sarcastic grin. “I didn’t tamper with any evidence. I was looking for some. Holt must have missed something.”
“Why do you say that?”
Colby tapped the newspaper headline. “Because Aunt Harriet was too strong-minded to do something like that. I wasn’t around my aunt a lot, but she was a forceful woman. Look how she straightened this town out on how to run the library. When she said jump, the city council did.”
Pierce studied the younger man for a long twenty seconds. Chelsea stilled herself for a confrontation. Pierce surprised her when he placed a hand on Colby’s shoulder.
“I agree. She was one determined woman, practical and fair-minded. Suicide seemed out of character to me, too. I asked for Dr. Kearns to do the autopsy and lend the sheriff’s department a hand because she is the best. Let the law do its job, okay?”
The two men eyed each other, one angry and suspicious, the other calm and certain.
At last Colby nodded. “I’d like to know what you turn up,” he requested.
“I’ll see that you get a full report,” Pierce promised.
After Colby left, Pierce tilted his head toward the street. “Ready to go? I have to get back for a meeting at two this afternoon.” He sighed and added, “I hate meetings.”
Instead of riding with him, she drove her own car to her cabin, then walked the short distance to his. She’d wondered what he was going to serve, then discovered he’d bought two lunches at the diner. That’s what had brought him in while she was being grilled by the nephew.
“Barbecued chicken, your favorite,” he said, setting the containers on the patio table. He’d also provided two large cups of iced tea, hers with lemon.
Taking a chair, she joined him in the meal, her mind going like a buzz saw. Pierce had asked for her help with the case. She hadn’t known that. He’d remembered that she took lemon in her tea.
Not that these tidbits meant anything, she reminded her suddenly buoyant spirits. She sighed quietly. Whatever they had shared was now long gone, but it had been a lovely time out of time while it lasted.
As soon as they finished eating, he asked, “Did you see anything interesting at Harriet’s house?”
Chelsea brought her wayward thoughts in line. “She was a neat person. Her house wasn’t cluttered. She liked flowers and she was fond of her sister and nephew. There were no signs of a past of any kind. Where did she go to college? Where was she born? What was she hiding?”
“I don’t think she was hiding anything. Her diplomas are in her office at the library. She has several. She earned a PhD after she moved here, but she didn’t like being called Dr. Martel.”
“It’s obvious she was very intelligent,” Chelsea said.
Pierce studied her, a questioning frown on his face. “But you see a contradiction in her actions?”
“Yes. How does a smart, independent and wealthy woman get mixed up with someone who would shoot her and try to make it look like suicide?”
“You’re the expert. You tell me.”
Chelsea hesitated, then said, “He was very controlling. I think he wanted her to get rid of the baby. She refused. That triggered the quarrel.”
Pierce leaned toward her, excitement flashing through his eyes. “Can you profile him for us?”
“I can give you some ideas on his personality.” She considered the evidence she’d seen and been given by the lawman. “He’s used to command, and he hates to be thwarted. He has a temper, which he’s generally learned to control.”
“But not always,” Pierce muttered.
“No, not always. He’s in his forties, maybe early fifties. Miss Martel was forty-three. At any rate, he was mature enough to control the first wave of panic and think through corrective steps. He wiped down his fingerprints, then set up the suicide. He was smart enough to use her gun.”
“There’s no record she had one,” Pierce said.
Chelsea shrugged. “The slug was a twenty-two, a caliber a woman would be comfortable with—not too big, but powerful enough for close range, say if a burglar was in the house. He probably gave her the gun and insisted she keep it.”
Pierce was silent for a long minute. “Anything else?”
“He would be drawn to positions of power. If in the army, he’d be an officer. In civilian life, he could be a cop or a CEO. If he owned a company, he’d be a tyrant. To attract a woman like Harriet Martel, he’d have to be intelligent. He’d also be charming. Both are good skills for public office. He’d more likely hold an elective office rather than an appointed one.”
“Why?”
“Self-preservation. Other men would be afraid of him. He’s ambitious and ruthless. Utterly ruthless.”
“A person would have to be without conscience to kill his lover and his child. Is that your conclusion?”
“Yes.”
Pierce grimaced. “I wish I knew what to think. I can’t conceive of a murderer walking around loose in my town. I know everybody within ten miles of the city limits and probably half the rest of the county, too. You and Holt say the man is local. I find that hard to believe.”
Anger blazed from his eyes as he glared at her.
She went on the defensive. “Believe what you wish.
Perhaps you’d like to bring someone else in on the case. I can give you a name. I trained under one of the FBI’s foremost forensic investigators my last year of school.”
“So Kelly said.” He waved a hand in dismissal of her suggestion. “You’re the best, or else I wouldn’t have asked for you.”
Her eyes met his and locked. For an eternity they gazed at each other, questions and awareness rushing in rivers of unappeased hunger between them.
“Damnation,” he muttered.
Then he reached for her.
Chapter Three
Chelsea knew she should tell him no. She ordered her lips to form the word. But she didn’t utter it. This moment was too much like her dreams the past few nights.
Then his mouth met hers and all the wonder and desire of the past rolled over her. She knew he felt it, too. A shudder went through him as he held her closer, and she was instantly aware of the hardness of his body and of his hunger.
She arched her back and pressed against him, eager for completion that had been missing for eight years. Tears burned the back of her eyes as she realized just how much she’d missed this…missed him….
His hands, warm and supple, roamed her back, her hips, along her thighs, up her sides, then paused for an instant before sliding upward once more. He turned slightly so he could cup her breast in one hand while the other slid to her hip to caress in a kneading motion.
“Too long,” he muttered, releasing her mouth and skipping kisses along her jaw and down her throat. “It’s been too long.”
“Yes.” She touched his face, combed her fingers through the thick strands of his hair, loving the feel, the texture of him against her palms. “I’ve missed—”
She stopped the words, not wanting to admit there’d been few dates and no serious relationship in her life since they’d parted.
“This,” he finished for her. “I know. I told myself I wouldn’t want you again.”
“Then don’t. Let me go.”
Anger joined the flames of passion in his eyes. “I can’t. It’s too strong. You have a hold over me….”
He shook his head. She understood the frustration, the longing that wouldn’t let up, the failure of logic and all the reasons they shouldn’t be doing this.
When he lifted her to the railing and pushed between her thighs, fitting their bodies intimately into place, her bones became as pliant as taffy. When he moved against her, her mind went cloudy.
They kissed endlessly, a wildness running through her blood and echoing in the beat of his heart against her breasts. Fighting the tidal wave of hunger was useless. She clung to him, wanting the hot bliss that only he stirred to life in her.
“Why?” he said at one point, his eyes licking over her in restless flames of need. “Why does it have to be you?”
Hurt, she tried to draw away, but he wouldn’t let her. She turned her face from his rampaging mouth. He caught her head between his hands and held her face so he could gaze into her eyes.
“It’s always been this way for us, hasn’t it?” he demanded huskily. “Wild and necessary. Primitive and unexplained. The call of blood to blood.”
She shook her head, unable to summon words in her defense but feeling that she should.
“Irresistible,” he whispered.
He took her mouth again, fanning the passion that flowed like lava between them, burning all sense and good intentions to a crisp, leaving only the hunger, the terrible, terrible hunger. She moaned as he caressed her breasts, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive tips so that they contracted into hard points of ecstasy.
“I have to see you, all of you,” he told her. “It’s like being starved, then coming upon a feast. I have to have it all.”
“Yes,” she said, knowing exactly what he meant. “Yes.”
With fingers that trembled ever so little, he unfastened her blouse and pulled it from her slacks. Eyes narrowed impatiently, he checked her bra, then slid his hands around her and unfastened the hooks.
Slowly, torturously, he pushed the satin upward, out of the way. Then he simply looked, his lashes lowered sexily over the flaming passion she saw in his gaze.
“Beautiful,” he said, and kissed the yearning tips, then feathered his tongue over each one.
She clutched his shoulders as the world spun out of control. When he lifted her breasts and paid special attention to them with his lips and his hands, she couldn’t keep from crying out as the wonder of his touch filled her.
He lifted her from the railing and set her on her feet. Taking her hand, he said, “Let’s go.”
In the cabin, its air cool compared to the heat of the deck, she tried to think, but her mind refused to cooperate. She realized she didn’t want caution and reason and all the things she’d practiced all her life.
Going into the bedroom with him, she stopped when he did and faced him, her heart rushing its beat at the intensity in his gaze.
“I have protection at my place,” he said softly, his eyes locked with hers. “Would you feel better if we used it?”
She blinked in uncertainty. “I can’t conceive,” she finally said. “I had polyps removed, but there’s scar tissue.”
He laid a finger over her lips, then lingered to caress her gently. “Kelly told me. I’m safe, but I wanted to make sure you were comfortable.”
Chelsea looked away from his probing gaze, touched by his consideration in ways she didn’t want to admit. He’d always had the ability to reach inside and touch the lonely places she tried to hide.
