Lawman. Part 10

"Grace!"

She frowned. That deep voice sounded oddly familiar. It sounded like Garon. But surely he hadn't heard her?

"I'm here!" she called.

He came around the house, still dressed in his work clothes. "What the h.e.l.l happened?"

"A coyote was chasing Wilbur. I ran him off with a stick, but I turned my ankle in the process," she said with a small laugh.

"I heard you yelling from the front porch. I thought you were being attacked," he muttered, bending. "Here, I'll carry you...!"

She froze, her eyes wide, her body rigid as he bent. She jerked back, clutching her sweater around her chest.

He swore fiercely, standing abruptly upright. "What the h.e.l.l is the matter with you?" he demanded.

Tears stung her eyes. She hated the way she was with men. He didn't mean to hurt her. He was trying to help. But she couldn't bear a man's touch on her skin. How could she explain that to him?

"I...don't like...being touched," she whispered, not looking at him. She was too embarra.s.sed.

It had been a long day, full of frustration, and he wasn't in a good mood. He almost stormed off and left her to it. Then he remembered the nightmare she'd had at his house. He remembered the shapeless clothing she wore, her lack of makeup, her uneasiness with men. He'd been in law enforcement long enough to recognize those signs. It hit him like a brick. He should have seen it sooner.

He knelt down in front of her, his eyes even with hers. "Grace," he said gently, "I won't hurt you. I promise I won't. But you can't walk, and you can't stay here all night."

She still had a stranglehold on her sweater, but his voice was calm and steady, and he didn't look angry anymore. He didn't even look threatening. She ground her teeth together.

"It isn't...personal," she gritted.

"Of course it isn't. Come on."

He held out his arm and she took it, pulling herself to her feet. She a.s.sumed that he would lend her some support on her way to the porch. But he suddenly bent and swung her up in his arms, carrying her toward the porch.

She made an odd, frightened little sound in her throat and stiffened.

He stopped, looking down into her eyes. "You don't like being carried," he murmured. "It frightens you."

She swallowed, hard, her eyes full of pain. He didn't know. She couldn't tell him. She drew in a long breath, and then another. He wasn't going to hurt her. He was a kind man.

She forced herself to relax. Her cold hands eased up around his neck as he shifted her weight. "S-sorry," she stammered.

He wondered what in the world could have happened to her, what had made her so jumpy and uneasy with men. An attack of some sort? A rape? He didn't know her well enough to ask questions. He wished he did.

"Taking on a coyote with a stick," he murmured as he carried her back to the house. "Now I've heard everything."

"He was trying to hurt Wilbur," she explained.

He smiled. "I see."

"He's just a helpless old cat," she said.

"No need to explain. I used to have a cat, myself."

"What happened to it?"

He didn't like the memory. "I had to give it away. I was transferred to another city and the apartment didn't allow cats."

"That's sad,"

"There was a little girl next door who loved cats. I gave it to her."

She wanted to know about him, about his past. But she sensed that he was very much like her; he didn't talk about himself.

She was noticing other things. He smelled of a nicely masculine aftershave. He smelled of soap, too. He was a fastidious man. His shirts were always starched and pressed, his boots highly polished. His skin was olive tan, and his eyes were dark and mysterious. He had high cheekbones and a sensuous mouth.

The thought embarra.s.sed her. She hadn't thought of a mouth being sensuous before. And she was having some odd sensations because of the way he was holding her, so that one of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s was almost flattened against his broad chest. Her heartbeat accelerated, and her breath came unsteadily past her lips.

He felt those reactions in her with an odd sense of pride. She was afraid of men but she was vulnerable with him.

He carried her into the house and put her down in an easy chair. "Do you have an Ace bandage?"

She gave him a wide-eyed look. "And what would I be doing with an Ace bandage?" she asked reasonably.

"Good question." He eyed her calmly. "We could manage with some gauze and adhesive tape, I suppose."

"n.o.body normal uses that on cuts," she pointed out. "We have Band-Aids."

He pursed his lips. "We could use an old pair of panty hose."

"I don't wear..."

He held up a hand. "Please. I have problems discussing women's underthings."

At first she took it seriously, and then she saw the twinkle in his dark eyes and she started laughing.

The action made her face glow, emphasized the softness of her gray eyes and the beauty of her perfect skin and pretty mouth. He found himself staring down at her helplessly. Her hair was up in a high ponytail. He wanted to take it down and see if it felt as silky as it looked.

"Well, you're going to have to come home with me," he said. "I'm sure Miss Turner can find something to bind your ankle with."

"I've only just come back home," she pointed out. "And Wilbur has to be fed."

He shrugged. "I'll feed Wilbur."

"I suppose I could leave him inside," she began. "I just bought a litter box..."

He left her in midsentence to attend to the old tomcat, who came right in when he opened the front door and led him to the kitchen.

HE HELPED GRACE into his car, leaning over her to fasten her seat belt. He noticed her breathing changed as he came close, and his gaze suddenly dropped to meet hers in the glare of the top light. It was like lightning striking. His dark eyes narrowed and fell to her full mouth, lingering there until he heard a faint gasp come out of her throat.

He had to force himself to stand up. He closed her door and moved around the car, reciting silent multiplication tables to himself as he got in beside her and started the car. It really had been a long, dry spell, if this frumpy woman was arousing him, he told himself.

He carried her into the house, pausing to ring the doorbell and wait for Miss Turner to answer it. He looked down into Grace's face and felt his arms involuntarily drawing her closer. She shivered, once, and her hands stole up around his neck as she met the open curiosity of his gaze.

His chest rose and fell heavily. His jaw tautened. He looked at her mouth and felt an insane fever to take it under his and devour it.

Grace didn't understand much about men, but even in her innocence she felt the heat and sensuality of that look, and her body responded to it helplessly.

"Playing with fire, little girl," he whispered gruffly.

The tension in his deep, velvety voice rippled through her like liquid fire. Her hands tightened behind his neck. She actually lifted toward him in the few explosive seconds before the sound of the front door opening split them quickly apart.

"What in the world...!" Miss Turner exclaimed when she saw Grace being carried.

"She tripped while she was chasing a coyote with a stick," Garon muttered, brushing past her with Grace. "I need an Ace bandage."

"I'll go get one. I keep them for the men," she murmured, retreating as he headed for the living room. "Somebody's always spraining something. Chasing a coyote?!"

"He was trying to eat my cat," Grace called.

"He'd throw him right back up," Garon returned as he put her quickly down on the sofa. "Your cat looks like five miles of rough road, and he stinks."

"He does not!" she exclaimed.

"Well, you can take my word for it that nothing sane would try to eat him," he retorted.

He put his hands in his pockets and stared down at her with confusion. She was wearing baggy jeans and that same pink sweatshirt. He wondered what she'd look like in black lace and silk. He blinked, hard. Where had that odd curiosity come from?

Miss Turner was back in a flash with the bandage. She handed it to Garon. "Are you planning to repair her and take her home, or is she staying?"

Garon knelt at her feet, opening the elastic bandage. He looked up at Grace with a fever of hunger. He didn't understand it, but he couldn't fight it, either. "She's staying," he murmured, lifting her foot onto his thigh. "For a few days, at least."

"But, my job..."

"I'll phone Judy at the florist for you, Grace," Miss Turner said, delighted.

"You can't work if you can't walk," Garon agreed. "Just a couple of days off your feet should do the trick. Rest, ice packs, compression and elevation. RICE," he added, smiling. "We'll take good care of you."

She didn't even have the will to resist. She wanted to be with him. It was going to end in tragedy, she knew it. But she couldn't help herself. "Okay," she said.

He smiled to himself. Fevers were best allowed to burn themselves out, he thought, and refused to think any deeper than that.

HE WENT TO WORK the next day, leaving Grace propped up in bed with plenty of reading material and Miss Turner for company. The ice packs had reduced the swelling, and the rest was helping as well.

"I feel much better," Grace told the older woman.

"A couple more days and you'll be walking," was her reply. She smiled. "I think you're getting to the boss," she added on a chuckle. "Only a week ago, he'd have had Coltrain admit you to the hospital."

"He just feels sorry for me," Grace said, not getting her hopes up. "That niece of Mrs. Tabor's brought food to the house," she said. "She told me that she'd worried I was some sort of compet.i.tion until she saw me. She was very insulting."

"You should tell the boss."

"No," Grace returned. "I couldn't. She must have something going with him."

"An invitation to a party," Miss Turner replied. "He may find her interesting, but she isn't the proper sort of companion for a man in his position. Law enforcement types tend to be extra conservative. She's being gossiped about all over town, and not in a good way. The woman's a nymphomaniac. She doesn't even stop at married men."

"What do you mean?"

"They say she made a play for Leo Hart, and Tess walked right up to her in Andy Webb's office and told her she'd tar and feather her if she ever made a move on her husband again. Andy's still laughing about it."

"What did she say?"

"There was nothing she could say. Tess was furious, and she didn't lower her voice any, either. I wouldn't say the woman was embarra.s.sed, exactly, but Calhoun Ballenger was walking past the office when Tess said it, and he gave the woman a look that meant trouble. She got out of Tess's way real fast."

Tess couldn't resist a smile. Redheaded Tess was a tiger when she lost her temper.

GARON AND MARQUEZ had gone together to the outskirts of the city to interview, among many others, a witness who said he saw a shadowy figure take the child out of her house late one night. Garon had a BlackBerry, like Marquez's. It came in handy here.

"Couldn't swear to it," the witness, Sheldon, told them. He lived next door to the child who had been abducted. "But he looked sort of like a drifter I saw near the computer shop in town. I write software," he added in a lazy tone. "The man was tall, thin, completely bald on top. Middle-aged. He looked dirty. And he limped."

"Could you see the child?" Garon asked.

He shrugged. "He was carrying something. It could have been a bundle of clothes for all I know. I was up late. I went to the kitchen for water, and there he was. It wasn't until the next morning that I heard the child was missing. I did tell the police."

"Yes, we had the patrolman's report," Marquez replied. He gave the man a long, steady scrutiny, noting his gloves. "Why do you wear gloves in the house?" he asked.

"I had an accident when I was a child," the man replied, his eyes growing cold. "I have scars on them. People stare."

"Sorry," Marquez said.

"Can you type like that?" Garon queried, noting how very white the wrists were above the gloves.

"Yes, they're kid leather, very thin."

"Well, thanks," Garon said, putting away his BlackBerry.

"Anytime," he replied, rising from his chair. He was a tall, timid sort of man who seemed to like the best computers money could buy. He had two, a base computer and an expensive laptop. He said he had a girlfriend, but he lived alone in the small apartment complex just inside the San Antonio city limits.

"How long have you lived here?" Marquez asked.

"About a year," he said. He smiled pleasantly. "I don't stay one place much. I get restless. And my job is portable. All I really need is a post office."

"Well, thanks again. If you think of anything else, give us a call," Marquez added, handing him a business card.

The man looked at it curiously. "Sure. Sure I will." He smiled oddly. "How's the case coming? Any leads?"

"We're hoping you might have given us one," Marquez said.

"I can see how you'd need help finding this guy," he remarked. "You cops aren't required to have much education, are you? I was invited to join MENSA."

MENSA, the organization for geniuses. Garon gave the man an odd look. "Were you?"