Beckett's Convenient Bride Page 15

  “Carson?” He could be shaving, she told herself, knowing that if he were anywhere nearby, she would have sensed it. Forcing herself to stay calm, to think logically, she murmured aloud, “Take a deep breath. Forget what happened, it’s over, okay? Time to move on.”

  She waited for the words to sink in.

  It didn’t help. Dammit—damn it all to hell and back, she didn’t want to move on! At least, if she moved anywhere, she didn’t want to do it alone.

  I never promised you a rose ga-arden. Words to the corny old song played over in her mind, and she bit her lip to keep from laughing. Or maybe from crying.

  Instead she cursed some more, awkwardly and inexpertly, and then she flung back the covers and stood. And there on the bedside table next to the telephone, was a can of orange-flavored drink, a packaged muffin and a sack of corn chips.

  And a note. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she scanned the few lines. His handwriting was half-printing, half-script. It looked just like the man himself—hard-edged, but with a grace and softness that was rare among men—at least the men of her acquaintance.

  She read, “It’s 6:47 a.m., Sleeping Beauty. I’ll be back in a couple of hours with stuff we need. Change of clothes and some real food. List everything you remember that happened, everything you lost in the fire and anything else that needs listing.” In other words, she translated, keep your mind occupied so you won’t panic.

  Well, that was just too damned tough. If she wanted to panic, she would damn well panic. And curse while she was doing it. She might be a flake—she’d been called it more than a few times—but no one had ever called her a wimp.

  She read the last hastily scribbled line. “You might want to call your folks and let them know where you are.” He signed it C. B. No Love, no Sincerely—no nothing. Just his damn-blasted initials.

  She didn’t start crying until she went into the bathroom and saw her panties and bra hanging over the shower rod, where he had rinsed them out and hung them to dry. She took them down—they were still damp—and rolled them in the last clean hand towel.

  She might have sobbed a time or two standing under the stream of hot water, but at least she didn’t gulp water and drown. By the time she stepped out and wrapped herself in a skimpy bath towel, she felt marginally better. Or if not better, at least more in command.

  Lists? He wanted her to make lists?

  Fine. She could start with the fact that she was staying in a motel she couldn’t pay for, with no place to go if she left, and no way of getting there even if she had a place to go. There was a single ten-dollar bill tucked into her evening purse, a comb and some loose change; a driver’s license, her social security card and slim ballpoint pen. So yes, she could make a list, but of what? Her prospects? Her worldly possessions?

  Ha! Short list.

  And that wasn’t even the worst of it. Sometime in the past few days she had taken complete leave of her senses and fallen madly in love with a man who was engaged to another woman, a man who had a sick mother who needed him—a man who claimed in his note that he’d be back, but then, why should he? He was under no obligation just because they had—

  Well. He might have mentioned taking her home with him, but that had been a social lie. She knew all about those. She’d been hearing them all her life—lies designed to protect the flawless Dixon facade of old money and old family her grandfather so loved to project.

  The fact that neither the money nor the family had been his didn’t faze him. His father had been a greengrocer in Cincinnati, and he’d earned scholarships to get through law school.

  Kit toyed with the pen, staring at the blank page on the motel’s notepad. If she had to call her grandfather, she would do it. It was marginally preferable to hitchhiking. She could call Jeff, but he really couldn’t afford to leave work, not when she’d left him shorthanded, and besides, Gilbert’s Point was the last place she wanted to go now.

  Dressed in the fuchsia satin, which was all she had to put on, with her damp, freshly combed hair woven into a lumpy braid, she was sitting on the fake leather armchair, her feet propped on the bed, with half a glass of orange-colored liquid beside her when the door rattled and then opened. She’d started her list by drawing a big, fat number one and doodling all around it.

  Doodling. The creative mind at work.

  “You should’ve fastened the chain as soon as you got up,” Carson said.

  “The door was locked.” Where have you been? I thought you weren’t coming back!

  “You got any idea how easy it is to get into one of these rooms?” He tossed several large bags onto the bed and carefully placed another one on the table beside her. “Chain’s not much good. One hard shove and the screws pop out. Here, I brought us some breakfast.”

  She had eaten half the muffin and all of the corn chips he’d left her and she was still starved. “It’s my metabolism,” she said defiantly, irrationally angry because she thought he’d left her here and gone home. “Creative people burn calories just thinking.”

  “Right,” he said with a quizzical lift of one crow-black eyebrow.

  Kit opened the bag and took out a lidded cup of coffee, a greasy, white-flour biscuit filled with all sorts of wicked things, and a big, sugar-topped raisin bun. “Oh, I’m in heaven,” she said with a sigh, eagerly unwrapping the bun.

  Not until the sweet was half-demolished did she notice that Carson wasn’t wearing the clothes he’d left in. Instead he had on a new pair of jeans that were darker than the softly faded, close-fitting ones he’d worn that first day. The black knit shirt was similar, and he was wearing the same brown leather boots, minus most of the mud and soot from the night before.

  “Do you ride?” she asked, licking the sugar off her thumb.

  “Do I what?”

  “You know—horses.” She took another bite and nodded to his feet.

  “Oh. Horses. Yeah, I used to ride. Haven’t in a long time, though. The boots are purely an affectation.”

  “Ha. You’re the least affected man I know. You don’t even wear cologne.”

  “Hey, I’m a detective, right? Hard to sneak up on the bad guys when they can smell you coming a mile away.”

  She grinned and started unwrapping her ham-egg-and-cheese biscuit. And here she’d thought she would never laugh again. Given enough sugar in her system, she could conquer the world.

  Or at least Currituck County. “Randolph—you remember Randolph from the party? He wears some scent that he modestly lets everyone on the planet know he had custom blended just for him.” She concentrated on her biscuit. Concentrated on anything and everything that would keep her from dwelling on the immediate future.

  He didn’t say a word. He was obviously going to let her wallow in embarrassment just because she’d practically dragged him into her bed.

  She took a big bite of her breakfast sandwich and chewed savagely, glaring down at the fuchsia satin, cabbage-sized rose on her left knee.

  “What’s the matter, is it cold? I don’t think they have microwaves here, but I could ask in the office.”

  “It’s not the sandwich,” she said with a dismissive shrug.

  “Yeah, well…when you’re finished eating, you might want to try on the stuff I bought. We can exchange anything that doesn’t fit, but I thought you might want something else to wear while you shop for the rest of what you need for the next few days. I’m no good at picking out women’s whatchamacallits.”

  “Oh, am I going shopping?” Her smile was about as genuine as a two-dollar diamond ring. Stop it. Just stop it right now. He’s trying to be decent, and you’re acting like a spoiled brat!

  Carson hiked up his stiff new jeans and sat on the edge of the bed. “First you’re going to finish eating,” he said. “Then you’re going to change clothes and then we’re going to talk. After that we’ll go shopping.”

  Before he could issue further orders, his cell phone buzzed softly. Kit pried the lid off her coffee, still steaming but weak as water, whil
e Carson turned away.

  “Yeah, Moose? You got something for me?”

  Moose? She tried not to listen, she really did. Besides, he was mostly listening. Why bother to eavesdrop on someone who spoke only in monosyllables? Halfway through the one-sided conversation he leaned over and started making notes on the list she had started and forgotten.

  She tried to remember what was on it. The fat number one followed by a lot of doodling. Nothing incriminating, thank goodness—she was pretty certain of that. No hearts and flowers, with the initials C.B. entwined with K.D.

  “Thanks, man,” he said, and realizing that she was leaning over to see what he’d jotted down, she sat up straight. “I owe you,” he said into a phone no larger than a pack of cigarettes. “What? Probably next week, so get your butt out of my chair, y’hear?”

  He punched off, laid the phone aside, thumbed up a sandwich crumb from the napkin on the table and licked it off. “I bought this ergonomic chair when I had some back trouble. Now every guy in the department wants one just like it.”

  Kit’s fingers crept back toward the notepad. She’d seen just enough to remember what she’d doodled there. A pair of high-heeled sandals bracketed by a pair of cowboy boots.

  I’ll die. I’ll just crawl off somewhere and die quietly, and by the time he gets back to Charleston he’ll have forgotten my name.

  “Okay, you ready to talk now?”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and set aside the uneaten half of her biscuit. “Do we have to?”

  “I thought you wanted answers.”

  “That depends on the questions.”

  “For starters, how about who shot Tank Hubble, and why? How about who torched your house, and why? But I guess you pretty well figured out that one for yourself.”

  “To scare me off, you mean.”

  Carson let it go at that. She didn’t really need to be reminded that she and poor old Hubble fell into the same category, not after what had happened to Tank. He didn’t know how serious the attempts on her life had been, or how far they would have gone, but even the dumbest perps occasionally pulled off a hit and got away with it. It happened more than the general public suspected.

  As it turned out in this particular case, Internal Affairs had started closing in on their rogue deputy shortly before Kit had spotted his truck and spooked. But not before he’d had time to get rid of one witness and made a couple of unsuccessful attempts to silence the second witness.

  “Turns out you were right on target,” he said. “Mooney has been under surveillance ever since discrepancies started showing up, mostly concerning missing evidence.”

  “Missing evidence of what?”

  “Dope and guns, taken in other busts. Supposedly kept under lock and key.”

  He could practically see her processing the information. Oh, yeah—the lady was a lot smarter than she let on. He was onto her now.

  She took a big gulp of coffee and wrinkled her nose. Not a sign of makeup, Carson marveled, watching her, and she was flat-out gorgeous. Naked freckles, shadowed eyes, messy hair and all.

  “Kit, Kit,” he said softly. Rising, he stood over her, removed the cup from her hand and lifted her to her feet. “What am I going to do with you?” he whispered.

  She was barely breathing—but then, he was having trouble in that regard, too. His heart was pounding a mile a minute, but he clean forgot to breathe. She lifted her face as naturally as a sunflower sought out the sun, and he met her halfway. Her lips parted under his, the liquid dance of desire, lightly seasoned with coffee, escalating as his hands moved over her satin-clad body.

  Digging her fingers under his belt, Kit tried to pull his shirttail free, as if desperately needing to touch bare skin. Needing…everything.

  “You’ve got clothes to try on, woman,” he said gruffly, but neither of them seriously thought there’d be any trying-on in the near future.

  At least, not of clothes.

  By the time they ended up in bed, along with a shoebox and several bags, Kit had somehow managed to shed her dress. Getting Carson out of his stiff new jeans took more time. Took four hands and a lot of awkward, breathless maneuvers. The jeans weren’t all that was stiff.

  “You’re downright habit-forming,” he murmured once they were both suitably naked. His mouth moved down her throat toward her breasts. “Either that or—” he laved one nipple with his tongue, relishing her reaction “—or my immune system is seriously compromised.”

  “You’re accusing me of compromising you?” she teased.

  “Oh, yea-ahhh…” This time they took time to savor each small step along the way. Bolder now, Kit insisted on exploring, and Carson lay back and allowed her to have her way with him. Actually encouraged it in so many words, his own passion enhanced, if that were possible, by her obvious delight.

  “May I kiss you here?” she asked, toying with one of his nipples. His heart lodged somewhere in his throat while his lungs threatened to go on strike.

  “What about here?” she asked moments later as she probed his navel, then traced the scattering of dark hair surrounding it.

  Swallowing hard, he managed to nod. “Be my guest.”

  Some time later, she moved south, having evidently gained courage from his reaction to her earlier ministrations.

  This time, the instant her hand closed around him, he covered it with his own. “Wait—just—give me a minute,” he gasped.

  And so she gave him a minute—maybe two before she reclaimed control. And then Carson returned the favor. It was hours before either of them thought about going shopping again.

  Thirteen

  After explaining to Kit about the internal investigation, Carson checked in with the local sheriff again, leaving a number where he and Kit could be reached in the event it became necessary. She didn’t question him. She did give him a look he found impossible to interpret.

  After that they went shopping, as he’d just picked up the bare essentials on his earlier foray. Shopping was not something he’d ever enjoyed, unless it was shopping for fishing tackle. Shopping with a woman was in a totally different category.

  It turned out to involve lots of laughter and a few minor skirmishes, but no real problems. He insisted on buying her a pair of plain navy jeans and a white camp shirt.

  “Dull, dull, dull! May I at least pick out my own accessories?”

  Feeling magnanimous—feeling, in fact, as if he’d just tossed back one too many glasses of vintage champagne, he said, “Be my guest. I’ll meet you here in what—ten minutes?” Here being the book section of the big discount store, where Kit had looked over the children’s section and sighed, but hadn’t said anything.

  Thirty-five minutes later she was back, proudly showing off a pair of red sandals, some purple knee socks and wearing a pair of bead-and-feather earrings that dusted her shoulders. “I bought these on my own,” she announced, touching them proudly, “so don’t say a word. I needed something to cheer me up.”

  He only shook his head and grinned. This was Kit. His Kit, whether or not she knew it. He’d caught onto her by now. The more uncertain she felt on the inside, the more outrageous she acted on the outside. Methinks thou dost protest too much…hadn’t somebody or other once said something like that?

  Yeah, she had her defense mechanism, but then, so did he.

  Once outside the store, they surveyed the lunch possibilities and decided on subs again. After the first few protests, Kit didn’t mention paying him back. He knew she was only biding her time—knew, too, that at the moment, she had few options, at least until they could reestablish her credentials and cash her check.

  They left the sub shop and set out across the rapidly filling parking lot toward his car. She said, “Okay, what next? Where do we go from here?”

  He unlocked the doors and thought of how best to put it. What had been a disaster for her had turned out to be a windfall for him, but he didn’t think she was ready to hear that, and so he asked her for a favor. “Kit, I need y
ou to think seriously about coming home with me.”

  When she started to protest, he held up a hand. They were still standing outside the car under a cloudless sky. He should have bought her some sunglasses. “Now wait,” he said. “Just hear me out before you say anything.”

  She crossed her arms and waited. Her left foot was starting to tap. “I’m listening.” Was this the same woman who had come apart in his arms again and again, only a few hours ago?

  “Yeah, but with a closed mind, right? Kit—look, it’s early yet. I mean, in days. For us, I mean.” Smooth, Beckett. Real smooth. “But you have to admit, things have been kind of crazy ever since we met.”

  She nodded. “That much I’ll grant you.”

  Carson rubbed the back of his neck. As a busted-up cop with too many years of rough mileage on him, he was in no position to blurt out his feelings. They were too new. Truth was, they scared the hell out of him, and he’d never been called a coward. Been called a few other things, but never a coward. “Okay, here goes,” he said, eyes narrowed, fists on his hips. “I want you to come home with me as my fiancée. Wait—wait.” He held up a hand. “Don’t say anything yet. We can get married as soon as you round up a dress—something fancy with a veil—maybe kind of old-fashioned. Margaret can show you where to shop and all. And then—”

  “Margaret? Your Margaret?”

  “She’s not my Margaret—at least, not the way you mean it. Look, we were never in love. Never could have been, not in a million years, we know each other too well. But we were willing to go through with a wedding for my mom’s sake. Because we both love her and it’s the last thing we can do for her to bring her any joy. But then Margaret got this chance to join a New York decorating—”

  “Wait! Just hold on—you’re trying to tell me Margaret dumped you and now you want me to marry you? Just like that?”

  Raking a hand through his hair, Carson turned away and stared at a heavily detailed monster truck on display near the center of the parking lot. Man, talk about screwing up! He’d never got around to formally proposing to Margaret, but when he’d first broached the subject of a marriage for his mother’s sake, he’d done it at Margaret’s favorite French restaurant. He’d wanted every advantage he could scratch up. Not that it had done much good. In the first place, he didn’t like food he could neither recognize nor pronounce. In the second place, he’d been without sleep for almost thirty-six hours.