Standoff, page 23
He wished . . . what did he wish? That she loved him and he could hold her like this forever. That he could lift her face and kiss away her sadness. Instead he held her on the deserted sidewalk until she pulled away.
“Thanks for being a good friend,” she whispered and looked up into his eyes.
His heart plummeted. Friends. Thank goodness he hadn’t said anything or done something dumb like kiss her. He brushed a wayward strand of hair from her face, his gaze still locked into hers.
“Can I take you home?” he asked, almost drowning in her dark brown eyes.
She shook her head. “I don’t want to go home. Take me to Daisy’s.”
What had happened to make her not want to go home? He walked her to the car and waited until she fastened her seat belt before he closed the door. Maybe she’d tell him. His cell phone rang as he walked around the car. Vivian. “Hello,” he said, pausing with his hand on the car door.
“Would you help me find Brooke? She left over an hour ago and I thought she’d be back by now.”
“She’s with me,” he said.
“Thank goodness. She’s upset with me, but tell her . . . tell her we need to talk.”
“I will,” he said and disconnected and climbed in the car.
“Was that my mother?”
He nodded. Brooke turned and looked out the window. “I’m not going home.”
“Okay. Would you like to get dinner?”
“The way I look? Just take me to Daisy’s. I’ll make a cup of hot tea.”
He tried to think if he’d left anything on the kitchen table that might give away his undercover operation. Thank goodness he was obsessive about putting things away.
“One cup of Earl Grey coming up,” he said.
“Thanks, and I’m sorry I went all crazy on you.”
“No problem.” No, his problem was losing his heart to someone he would end up hurting.
52
The blocks passed in a blur. Of all the people to find Brooke, it had to be Luke. But it’d felt so good when he held her. Like she belonged. Stop it. Luke was still single for a reason.
He turned into the drive, and she wouldn’t allow herself to look toward their house.
John Danvers is not your father.
Like a chant, the words ran through her head, and her own voice added, You were a mistake. Her face burned with shame. She was the product of a—No! She would not go there.
“We’re here.”
She startled at Luke’s voice. How would he feel if he knew?
“You sure you don’t want to go to your house? Your mom sounded—”
“No! And please don’t ask me again.” She climbed out of the car on wooden legs before he could come around and open the door. “I just need to . . .” She had no idea what she needed. Time. A few minutes to collect herself. Then she’d decide what to do, where to go.
Brooke followed Luke inside Daisy’s house. It was a mirror image of her parents’ place, but decorated so differently. Daisy’s furniture had been bought early in her marriage and were antiques now. “It’s awfully neat,” she murmured, thinking of her own apartment. If only she could go there, but it was still under construction. “I didn’t know you were a neat freak.”
“What can I say? There’s nothing wrong with being tidy.” Luke snatched a paper from the sofa. “Tea’s in the kitchen. I’ll just put this in my room.”
“Sure.” She wandered through to the kitchen and found the tin of Earl Grey, and then she looked for the teakettle and saw the Keurig. “When did Daisy get that?” she asked as Luke came into the room.
“I was going to ask you the same thing. Let’s see if she has any Earl Grey in a pod.”
She stepped back while he rummaged in the cabinet.
“Here you go,” he said, turning the coffeemaker on.
Nothing smelled like Earl Grey. It’d been her dad’s favorite tea. When she was a kid, she thought all dads had tea parties with their daughters. It wasn’t until she was older that she learned most dads didn’t. Brooke wrapped her hands around the hot cup of tea Luke handed her. In another minute he drank from his own cup as they leaned against the counter. They’d run out of inane conversation, and an awkward silence filled the air between them.
Brooke turned and set her cup in the sink, then pressed her hands against her temples. The heaviness in her heart was too much to carry. It’d been bad enough when Dad died, but now it was like someone had killed him all over again. Luke set his cup on the counter and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned against him.
“I don’t know what happened,” he said, “but it will get better. Everything gets better.”
He cocooned her against his body and continued to pat her shoulders and rub her back. Safe. That’s the way she felt, like when she was a little girl and her world was right side up.
But it’d all been a lie.
He lifted her chin until she was looking into eyes the color of the sea. Eyes that held desire in them. Eyes that were true and honest.
Luke cupped her face in his hands, and she closed her eyes as he brushed away her tears she hadn’t realized had formed. Walk away.
Slowly he lowered his head and kissed her eyes and then moved down to lightly kiss her lips.
Brooke moaned and leaned into him, slipping her arms around his neck. He claimed her lips again, and this time she felt his hunger as he drew her even closer. She’d waited fourteen years for this even as she had steadily denied wanting it. She melted in his embrace.
You were a mistake.
She jerked out of his arms. “I’m sorry.”
“What’s wrong?”
The rawness in his voice raked her skin.
“I . . . you have to know something first.”
“I don’t have to know anything.” He pulled her to him again and touched his forehead to hers. “I—”
“Don’t say anything. You don’t know . . .” She pressed her hands on his chest, pushing him away. “I have to tell you . . . John Danvers is not my father.”
He snapped his head back, her words clearly shaking him. “What are you talking about? Of course he’s your father.”
“No.” She broke away from him and paced the kitchen, spilling the whole ugly story her mom had told her. “So Dad . . .” The name was uncomfortable on her tongue. She squared her shoulders. “He married Mom so no one would know.”
Brooke couldn’t bear to see pity in Luke’s eyes and dropped her gaze to the floor.
“I’m sorry.” He gently lifted her chin. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.” His eyes were tender and without a shred of pity in them.
“I’m not ashamed.” She said it too quickly, like saying it would make it true. “I’m hurt no one told me.”
“That would have been a hard call,” Luke said. “Can’t you rest in knowing he loved your mom and you?”
“If . . . if he’d loved me, he would have told me the truth.”
“Maybe he was afraid of losing you. Think about it. When would have been a good time? Not when you were too young to understand, and teenage years are hard enough—I can see how each year would have made it harder to sit you down and tell you.”
She hated that what he said made so much sense.
“Look at it this way. He loved your mom, he loved you and Meghan, and he didn’t want you to ever feel different.”
“I know what you’re saying, but it doesn’t change the fact that my whole life has been a lie.”
53
Luke wished he could convince Brooke nothing had really changed. John Danvers had loved her as much as he loved Meghan. He was certain of that. She winced and rubbed the side of her neck.
“Neck hurting?”
“And my head.”
He turned her around and gently massaged the knots in her neck and shoulders. “Why don’t you go home and rest?”
“I can’t. I need a little more time to think things through before I see Mom again.”
“You have to be exhausted. Why don’t you get in Daisy’s recliner?”
Brooke glanced toward the chair. “What will you do?”
“I have plenty to do. Check my email, maybe fix a bite to eat a little later.”
“Will you wake me after an hour?”
“Absolutely.”
Luke found an afghan that Daisy had knitted, and once Brooke was in the recliner, he spread it over her. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be in Daisy’s study.”
He closed the study door before he checked his email, then he texted Vivian to let her know Brooke was all right and that she was resting and received a reply of thanks. He glanced at the evidence board and made a note about the shoe print and blood they’d found, and then he checked on Brooke. Sound asleep. He should be able to get away long enough to transfer the heroin.
Luke dialed Delaney. “Are you back in Natchez?”
“Just got back.”
“Where can we meet so I can give you the heroin?” Luke kept his voice low.
“How about your place?”
“Brooke’s here.”
“Can you take a walk? I’ll intercept you somewhere on your block.”
That should be safe enough, and hopefully Brooke would sleep through the meeting. “See you in a minute.”
Luke wrote Brooke a note telling her he’d gone for a walk and left it on the coffee table. He stared down at her sleeping form, reliving the kiss they’d shared. The way she’d responded spread warmth through his chest. She’d enjoyed it as much as he had.
Jeremy Steele.
Luke winced. What had he been thinking? He could never offer the kind of relationship Steele wanted to give her. His work was too dangerous. But other undercover rangers married. Could he risk laying his heart on the line? She wanted someone who could give 100 percent. Could he do that? He never had before, didn’t know that he could now. And when she discovered he was working undercover and that he’d lied to her, everything else would be irrelevant.
The afghan had slipped to the side, and Luke retucked it around her. He just hoped he hadn’t messed up anything for her with Jeremy. Maybe Jeremy isn’t the right man for her. He pushed the thought away as he slipped out the door, but it wouldn’t stay gone.
54
She strode toward her car and grabbed her phone. When Brooke turned around, Sharon was looking over her shoulder, staring into the house. Then she saw it. A ball of flame exploding out the front door—
Brooke jerked awake, fighting whatever trapped her arms. She gradually became aware of the soft wool afghan tucked around her. She was at Daisy’s house. Safety wrapped around her like the afghan, and she snuggled in the chair, remembering Luke’s lips on hers.
I’m not John Danvers’s daughter. Brooke tried to block the thought, to shield herself from what her mother had told her, but the story filled her head until she thought it would burst. If only she could fast-forward six months, maybe the pain would be gone.
The room had darkened since she’d gone to sleep and she glanced around, looking for Luke, but the house felt empty.
“Luke?” she called. No answer. Where was he? Brooke returned the recliner to an upright position and stood. A paper on the coffee table caught her eye and she picked it up. Luke had gone for a walk. She smiled. Probably needed to get some fresh air. It was sweet that he had not awakened her.
Brooke stretched, feeling more rested, but at loose ends. Her phone rang. Daisy. “Good evening,” she said.
“Good evening to you. How are you?” Daisy asked.
“Better.”
“Good. Do you know where Luke is? He was supposed to call me back.”
“Out walking. What do you need?”
“I was going to ask him to find that book I’ve been wanting to read.”
“I’ll check now. It’s in your library, right?”
“On the bottom shelf.”
“I’ll find it and maybe we can bring it to you tomorrow.”
“Are you all right?” Daisy asked. “You sound a little down.”
Daisy could always read her. “Nothing I want to talk about over the phone. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”
Brooke padded down the hallway and pushed the door to the library open. The room was dark, and she flipped the switch right by the door and blinked her eyes at the bright light. The book Daisy wanted wasn’t on the bottom shelf, and she scanned the other shelves, finding it on the second shelf.
She turned to go back to the living room and froze. Someone had turned Daisy’s library into a . . . command center was the only term that came to mind. A whiteboard, a stack of files, photos pinned to a corkboard on the wall . . . She took a step toward the photos.
Blood drained from her face. It couldn’t be . . . she stared from one photo to the next. Her stomach heaved. She stumbled from the library, barely making it to the bathroom before she lost what little was in her stomach.
Brooke wet a cloth and pressed it to her face. Think. Luke had been using the library, so what she’d seen in the room belonged to him. Her chin quivered, and she fought the rush of emotion that slammed her. Buck up. But how did she buck up when her whole world had turned upside down? Again.
Why did he have photos of the crime scene at Emerald Mound? Photos of a crime scene she’d been trying to erase from her mind, but she had no delete button.
What was Luke doing with them? He wasn’t a cop. Had he killed her father? Were the photos trophies? Even in her state of shock, she didn’t really believe that. Did she? She needed evidence before Luke returned. If he discovered she knew about the photos, he might move them.
Brooke pulled her phone from her pocket and snapped close-ups of each photo pinned to the corkboard. She turned to take pictures of the desk. Then she quickly typed a text to Clayton and Dale, telling them she had something they needed to see.
“What are you doing in here?” Luke demanded.
She jumped, almost dropping her phone. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Obviously.”
Her phone rang and she ignored it. “What is this?” She waved her hand around the room.
“You better answer that.”
Brooke glanced at the ID. “It’s Dale. I text—”
“You didn’t tell him what’s in here, did you?’
“You don’t have to yell.”
“If you told him anything, answer the call and tell him it was a mistake.”
Brooke hesitated. She was torn between doing what she’d been taught at the academy and Luke.
“Please. I’ll explain everything. Just don’t tell him what you’ve found.”
She raked her finger across the screen. “Hello.”
“What is it I need to see?” Dale asked. “Can it wait until tomorrow when I swear you in? Mary is feeling better and we’re going out to dinner.”
“Uh, sure. It’ll keep. I’m glad you found something for her nausea.”
“Yeah. Sometimes her medicine works better than other times, and tonight is one of them,” he said. “Oh, and you don’t have to report every little thing to me or to Clayton. Trust your gut.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. See you tomorrow.” After she disconnected she raised her gaze to Luke, then nodded toward the photos. “Okay, tell me what this is all about. Why do you have pictures of my dad?”
55
While Brooke struggled to keep her composure, Luke wanted to kick himself for rocking her world yet again. If only he hadn’t been in such a hurry to get rid of the heroin. And then Delaney wanted to rehash the meeting Luke had with Boudreaux.
She straightened her shoulders, challenging him. “I’m waiting,” she said.
“Let’s go into the kitchen where we can sit down and—”
“No. Right here, right now.” Her eyes narrowed. “Did you take this?” She jerked one of the photos from the corkboard.
“Not that one. A crime scene tech took it.” He balled his hands, and the stress caused pain to shoot from his fingers to his right bicep. That pain was nothing compared to the way his heart hurt. Deep inside, he’d known it would come to this, that one day she would hold him accountable.
“But you did take some of them. How . . . ?” Her gaze dropped to the crime scene photo. When she raised her head, disbelief filled her eyes. Then she caught her breath. “That meant you were there when he was—”
“No. I came too late, your dad was already . . .” He looked at the floor. “I’m sorry. If I’d gotten there earlier, he would still be alive.”
“But there’s no mention of you in the sheriff’s report.”
“I know. Please,” he said, taking her hand. “Let me explain.”
How much, he wasn’t sure, but enough to make certain she didn’t tell anyone what she’d seen in the study. She allowed him to lead her out of the library and down the hall to the kitchen.
“Coffee?”
“Tea.”
“This won’t take a minute,” he said. “How about something to eat? I have sandwich meat—I could make you a sandwich.”
“I’ve lost my appetite,” she said and sat on one of the stools around the island.
So had he. Luke massaged his palm and rehearsed what he’d say while he brewed her tea, but everything sounded lame. Brooke took the cup he handed her and set it down.
“When were you going to tell me?”
He had never planned to tell her. Just find her father’s killer and let the FBI take credit.
“You weren’t, were you?”
Her cold accusation stabbed him. “That’s beside the point now.”
Throbbing started in his hand again and automatically he massaged the base of his thumb.
“What’s wrong with your hand? You keep rubbing it.”
He flexed his fingers. “Nothing.”
“Do you ever tell the truth? I’ve seen you rub your palm before, so something is definitely wrong.”
