Thread of Fear, page 10
part #1 of The Glass Sisters Series
She gazed up at him. Her cheeks were tinged pink from the cold. Her gaze veered to Courtney. “Have you eaten yet? You want to come with us?”
Jack gritted his teeth. He turned around to face Sister Sexpot, praying she wouldn’t say yes. He wanted Fiona alone. For a number of reasons.
“I’ve got plans already. But thanks for the invitation, Jack.” She smiled, and he knew she’d read his mind. “You guys stay out as late as you want. I won’t wait up.”
Fiona chose a restaurant just blocks away so she wouldn’t have to argue with Jack about who should drive. The place had the added benefit of being a sushi bar, which she felt sure he would hate. He had come to Austin because he needed something, and she wanted him as uncomfortable as possible while he asked for whatever it was.
The hostess suggested a cozy, candlelit table beside a waterfall, but Fiona asked for two seats at their bar. The granite counter faced an enormous tank filled with color-coordinated fish. Jack pulled out a bar stool for Fiona and nodded impassively at the knife-wielding chef behind the counter. Then he sat on the stool beside her and gazed blankly down at his menu.
“They have great hamachi here,” she said cheerfully.
“Hmm.”
“Or the unagi is always good. Do you like eel?”
“I’ve always been partial to kajiki.”
Fiona tried to mask her surprise. “You eat sushi?”
He shrugged. “Not lately.”
The waitress stopped by, and Fiona ordered a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Jack ordered a Budweiser, and didn’t even comment when it was delivered a few moments later in a slender blue glass.
He rested an elbow on the bar and turned to face her. He was wearing flannel again, and jeans, and work boots. Everything about him clashed with the restaurant’s trendy decor, but instead of looking out of place and uncomfortable, he simply looked more masculine, more in charge than ever. Fiona felt a spurt of irritation and dropped her gaze to her menu. She’d always had a weakness for in-charge men, and this one was throwing all her sluggish hormones into high gear.
“How come you didn’t invoice me for the postmortem drawing?” he asked.
She took her time answering. The reasons were complicated, and she didn’t feel like explaining. “I do pro bono work sometimes. It’s no big deal.”
She glanced up as she sipped her wine and saw him watching her intently. His eyes matched the water in the aquarium, and she felt annoyed with herself again for suggesting this place.
“I want you to invoice me.”
“Why?”
“Because I need us all squared up so I can ask you to do me a favor.”
The waitress came by for their orders, and Fiona took advantage of the interruption to shore up her defenses. Another favor. Another job. She was going to have to find a way to say no to him, and every one of her attempts so far had failed.
“You want to hire me again,” she said when the waitress left.
“That’s right.”
“I don’t want you to. I don’t want Nathan to hire me or the FBI or anyone. I need to move on, Jack. I—I’ve got a show coming up, and I’m nowhere near ready for it. It’s a major opportunity, and I can’t afford to blow it.”
“I’ve got another witness,” he said, as if she hadn’t even spoken. “Nine-year-old boy. Name’s Brady Cox. He saw the killer dump the body.”
Fiona closed her eyes and counted to ten mentally.
“I need you to interview this kid for me, get a picture of the guy.”
She wouldn’t look at him. She couldn’t. He had this way of bulldozing right over her resistance. She didn’t know how he did it, exactly, but she was pretty sure it had to do with eye contact.
She stared at the fish—all vibrant shades of scarlet and vermilion and gold—schooling and swirling through the water. They reminded her of flames. They reminded her of the red and orange bracelet she wore on her wrist and all the reasons she couldn’t let herself get sucked in again, because if she did, she’d never find her way out. She’d start watching CNN. She’d lose the ability to sleep and find herself lying in bed at night with the faces of child torturers looming above her.
Jack’s hand closed over hers on the bar. It was big and strong, and she stared at it, feeling the heat from him move up her arm into every part of her body. She didn’t look at him, didn’t want to acknowledge this first. If she did, she’d be acknowledging more touches to come. And she couldn’t, not when she knew he was using those touches to wear down her resistance. He was a determined investigator—she’d seen that firsthand. She admired that about him. But that meant he’d do whatever he needed to, including lie and probably fake emotions, in order to solve his case.
And she still didn’t know why this case meant so much to him because he’d refused to tell her.
“You drove all the way to Austin to ask me this?”
“I thought I’d have better luck in person.” She stole a glance at him and saw a boyish smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You have a hard time telling me no.”
She pulled her hand away and took another sip of wine. She felt him watching her, probably planning his next move.
Why was she actually considering this? What had happened to her backbone?
She placed her glass delicately on the bar and looked him right in the eye. If he lied to her again, she was out of here. For good. Screw Jack Bowman and his case, screw her friendship with Nathan. If this man lied to her one more time, she was going to get up and simply walk out.
“What’s between you and Lucy?” she asked.
He looked surprised. Then wary. Then he looked away.
He thumbed the base of his beer glass, turning it in circles on the bar. “We had a thing once. A long time ago.”
He glanced up at her, and she knew he was telling the truth.
“When? Before her attack?”
He nodded.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-five.”
“And she’s—”
“Twenty-nine.”
Fiona did the math. The age gap was a little weird. It wasn’t illegal, but it was cutting it close.
“She was barely eighteen at the time,” Jack provided. “And no, I’m not proud of it.” He looked down, shook his head. “Shit, I can’t explain it. It just happened. It started one summer, and then it just kept going. We’d been talking about her moving to Houston to be with me.”
He looked up at her. “Everything changed after her attack. She closed me out. Started drinking heavily. I didn’t know how to help her, really, and then after a while I stopped trying.”
He stared at his beer. “I’m not proud of that, either.”
Fiona watched him, and for the first time felt as if he was being completely straight with her. And then she disliked herself for making him do it.
God, she was messed up. Honesty was the big issue for her, it was the sticking point, and now that this man was finally being honest with her, she felt bad for asking it of him.
The sensible thing to do would be to tell him no. To save herself a slew of headaches and make him find someone else to help him.
But she didn’t want to do the sensible thing. She wanted to help Jack.
Jack who’d finally been honest with her.
“I’ll talk to your witness,” she said suddenly.
His head jerked around. “You will?”
“I’ll come tomorrow. You want to meet at the station? Or the boy’s house?”
He grimaced. “This kid’s home life’s a mess. We’re best off at the station.”
“Let’s do it early. If we get something useful, you can release it to the media in time for the afternoon and evening broadcasts.”
“Thank you.” He nodded. “I mean it, I really owe you one.”
She looked at the fish again, composing a painting in her mind. It was a waterscape with not just blues, but fiery oranges and reds swirled in. It was beautiful.
And she’d probably never take the time to paint it because Jack Bowman had pulled her back in.
Jack somehow managed to talk her into a drink after the sushi restaurant. Not wanting to give her time to change her mind, he picked the closest bar he could find, a tiny pub just across the street. The place was overheated and smelled like stale beer, but he glimpsed a dartboard in the back.
Jack took her hand and led her to an empty table near it. “Wine again?” He pulled the chair out for her and helped her off with her coat.
“How about a whiskey sour?”
A whiskey sour. He kept his opinions to himself. At least she was kicking back a little. “I’ll be right back.”
He took a few minutes to get their drinks at the bar, along with a set of darts, and returned to the table. She’d taken off the blazer to reveal a silky white shirt that was a lot more interesting.
“Here you go.” He set down their drinks, but didn’t join her at the table. “You ever throw darts?”
She looked at the box of darts. “No.”
“I bet you’d be good at it.”
He thought she was going to resist the challenge, but she scooted her chair back and stood up. She took a swig of her drink and plunked it on the table. “You’re on.”
He dropped his jacket over a chair and moved beside her in front of the board. “This isn’t a power game,” he explained. “It’s about technique.”
“In other words, I have a chance of beating you?”
“Ah, probably not. But it’ll be fun to see you try.” He took a dart and threw it gently, hitting the outer bull by some amazing stroke of luck.
She smiled up at him, and he got a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. Maybe it was the alcohol, but she’d lost her snippy attitude. “Okay, my turn.”
He handed her a dart. She took it and squinted at the board, then leaned forward.
“Wait. You’re leaning.” He guided her shoulders back and eased her pelvis forward slightly. “You need a stable stance.”
She took a deep breath and threw the dart, hitting a three just beneath the inner ring.
“Not bad,” he said. “Most first-timers barely hit the board.”
“I want to go again.”
He smiled and handed her another dart. She stepped forward, eagerly.
“Hey, now. No cheating.”
She dropped her gaze to the floor, noticed the line, and stepped back behind it. Then she bit her lip and sent a dart sailing three feet above the bull’s-eye.
“Oops.”
“It’s okay.” He retrieved the darts.
“You do some,” she said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He managed three respectable throws, even hitting a triple twenty, which she didn’t seem to realize was a big deal. He pulled the darts out and nodded for her to take a turn.
“So how’d you end up in Graingerville?” she asked. “You seem like you’d be more at home on an urban police force.”
“My dad got sick a few years back. Cancer. I was coming home a lot, helping out my mom.”
He watched her almost nail the bull’s-eye, then send one into the wall. Her aim was erratic. He eyed her blouse again, and noticed she’d unbuttoned another button, showing some skin. Her flirting was erratic, too.
“You were saying?” she asked, snapping his attention back to the conversation. “About coming home a lot?”
“So then the chief’s job opened up, and I decided to stay.”
Her face grew concerned. “How’d it turn out with your dad?”
Jack looked at the board and swigged his beer. “He died ’bout eighteen months ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Warm-up’s over,” he said, changing the subject. “Let’s keep score now. You go first.”
She threw a few times while Jack explained the scoring for Cricket—which was a little complicated for her liking—and she suggested they play first person to one hundred points. Fiona wasn’t great, but she wasn’t terrible either. Mainly, he just found himself enjoying her company. She was fun when she wasn’t working. She kept smiling at him, and he wondered why he’d let himself go so long without a date.
“So why’s your sister staying with you?” he asked. He was curious about Courtney, particularly her comments earlier. It sounded like Fiona had had previous boyfriends who were cops. It also sounded like she wanted a break from cops as much as she wanted one from police work. He intended to change her mind.
“She drops in sometimes,” Fiona said, not looking at him. She focused her concentration on the board and threw one smack into the bull’s-eye.
“Oh my God, look!” She turned and gave him an excited hug, which would have been great except for the dart in her hand.
“Careful, now.” He took it from her. “Hey, that’s a beauty. Guess I’m getting whipped.”
“Beginner’s luck,” she said, beaming.
Her smile was contagious, and he grinned down at her. “You’re gloating.”
“No, I’m not.” She picked up her glass, but it was empty. “I’m just enjoying the fact that you were so smug when we started. And now I’m kicking your butt.”
He liked her this way—relaxed and confident and loose around him. He nodded at her drink. “Want another one?”
She shook the glass, rattling the ice cubes. “I’d better not.” She put it on the table. “I’ve got to get up early.”
And with that, the mood changed as she seemed to remember why they were here together. She had a boy to interview tomorrow. A homicide to work.
She glanced at her watch. “We should go.”
She looked a million miles away as they left the bar and walked back toward her apartment. They passed a gap between buildings, and an icy gust of wind whipped through. Jack wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into him, and after an instant of resistance, she settled against his side.
“I saw your pictures,” he said. “Back there at your place.”
She didn’t say anything, but he felt her shoulders tighten.
“They’re good,” he added lamely.
She looked up with a wry smile. “You sound surprised.”
“Not really. Nathan said you painted nature scenes. I’d expected some portraits, too, I guess.”
“I don’t like portraits.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“But you’re really good at them. And I’ve only seen a few examples.”
She looked away. “I try to avoid people.”
“Antisocial?”
“Just when it comes to art. Too many sidewalk sketches on Venice Beach, I think. Tourists and wiggly kids.”
He pictured her seated at an easel beside a sunny beach in California. It was a nice image. Much better than the image of her seated beside a gurney in the morgue.
“It was a good place to start,” she continued. “Taught me to work quickly.”
“But you burned out?”
“Yes. Now I’d much rather paint something peaceful.”
They strolled down the street, ducking their heads against the biting wind. He pulled her closer.
“I wish this cold would end,” she said.
He could feel her shivering, even under the coat and blazer. “You miss California?”
Her cheek rested on his jacket, and he could smell her hair—something sweet, like peaches. He couldn’t believe she’d let him get this close, even just for warmth.
“Not really. Seventy-two and sunny all the time gets boring.”
He tried to follow the conversation, but he was distracted. He kept thinking about peeling off all those layers and warming her up the right way. He pictured her flushed and sweaty from sex, and his body reacted.
“Central Texas gets big, dramatic thunderstorms,” she said. “I love those.”
Christ, were they really talking about the weather? This was pathetic. What he wanted to talk about was where he’d be spending the night.
Although he shouldn’t even be here. He needed to be at work early, and even though he wasn’t technically on call tonight, being chief meant he was in charge twenty-four/seven. He should get back in case something happened.
But he wanted to stay with Fiona. All night. And not get a wink of sleep.
“Is this you?” Her footsteps slowed as they neared his truck, which he’d parked at a meter in front of her building. She stopped and turned to face him, stepping back so his arm fell away from her shoulders. A lock of hair blew across her face, and she peeled it away.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow then? Nine a.m. at the station? I’ll try to get there a few minutes early, before Brady.”
He tried to read what she wanted. Her words were telling him to take a hike, but her eyes were telling him something different. They were dark and liquid and wide with anticipation.
He eased closer, resting his hand on the cold metal of the truck and trapping her against his body. Her breath caught.
“You in a hurry for me to leave?” He stroked his hand up the lapel of her coat and then rested it against the bare skin of her neck, right where her pulse thumped. She had a faint scar there.
“Jack—”
“Invite me up.” He leaned in and kissed her temple. She smelled sweet. He wanted to find out how she tasted. He wanted some of that lush, pretty mouth.
But she turned and looked away. He followed her gaze to the top floor of her building. She seemed to be focused on the corner apartment where the lights were blazing. “Courtney’s there.”
“Maybe she left.”
“No, I just saw a shadow by the window. She doesn’t usually go out until late.”
Jack sighed. He’d only just met Courtney, but so far he wasn’t a fan.
Fiona slid her hands beneath his jacket, resting them at his waist. He felt the light pressure of her thumbs through his shirt, and his blood stirred some more.
She hadn’t said no. She just hadn’t said yes tonight. It was a subtle distinction, but he knew it was progress.
“Tomorrow then,” he said, hoping she knew he wasn’t just talking about work. He took her hand and tugged her toward her building.
Her brows arched, and her feet stayed planted.
“What?” he asked. “You expect me to leave without walking you to the door?”
