Stranger In His Arms Page 12

  “As long as the Neighborhood Watch doesn’t call the cops on us, we should be okay.”

  “That’s it.” Jennifer pointed to a row of contemporary townhouses. “His place is at the far end.”

  Dylan parked the truck across the street in the shade of a large oak, a spot that would be in almost total darkness once night fell. From the cab, they had a clear view of Crutchfield’s parking space and front door.

  “Now what?” Jennifer asked.

  “We wait for Crutchfield to come home from work so I can get a good look at him.”

  “Will looking at him tell you anything?”

  Dylan nodded. “You can judge a great deal of a man’s character by the way he moves and carries himself.”

  “But not enough to brand him as a killer?”

  “No, but if we follow him around for a while, determine his favorite routes and the places he frequents, we might have a clue to where he may have stashed hard evidence.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the gun he used to kill Thorne, or the bloodstained carpet from his office.”

  He was having a hard time concentrating. The compact atmosphere of the truck’s interior put him too close to Jennifer. The faint scent of honeysuckle tickled his nose, and he was all too aware he had only to reach out to touch her. And he wanted to touch her. He wanted to kiss her until she responded with the fervor she’d shown she was capable of. He wanted to hold her, protect her….

  He wrenched his thoughts from that dangerous direction. He was too fond of the pretty woman beside him. Not a good idea when he knew so little about her. His instincts warned him that she still held secrets, that he’d only peeled back the first thin layer of the complex puzzle that was Jennifer Reid. That surface layer was attractive, seductive even, but as a student of human nature, he’d learned long ago that appealing appearances could hide a rotten center. He didn’t believe he’d discover that with Jennifer, but until he had uncovered her secrets, he’d be smart to keep his distance.

  He decided to push her, nudge her memories while they waited. “You don’t seem to remember much about Casey’s Cove when we were kids.”

  “Sure I do.” She gazed out the window as if avoiding his eyes. “I wouldn’t have come back if I hadn’t.”

  “What’s your favorite memory?”

  She shrugged. “There’s so many. Swimming in the lake, hiking in the mountains—”

  “What do you remember about me, Tommy Bennett and the other kids?”

  She turned toward him, and in the dusky light, he could read the panic in her eyes. “I…uh…”

  “You don’t have any memories of us, do you?” The cop in him wondered why, and at the same time he hated himself for the agony he was causing her.

  “No, I don’t remember anything,” she admitted.

  “Call me cynical, but I find that very odd.”

  “I don’t blame you.” Even in the dim light, he could see the vivid flush that spread from her collar to the roots of her thick hair.

  “I’ve never shared the reason with anyone.”

  “What reason?”

  She took a deep breath, almost hyperventilating. “Aunt Emily.”

  “What about her?”

  Jennifer turned away again, as if ashamed to face him. “She was emotionally abusive. I spent years in therapy after she died. My psychiatrist claims the memories I’ve repressed will return when I’m ready to face them. That’s another reason I came back to Casey’s Cove, to jog them loose. So far it hasn’t worked.”

  He was torn between pity and disbelief. She’d lied to him so often, would he ever trust anything she said? But why tell lies about her childhood, especially about a topic so obviously painful to her?

  “I’m sorry I put you on the spot.” Only time would reveal whether she told the truth, if she was able to reclaim her lost experiences of their shared youth and relate them to him. In the meantime, he was back where he’d started, unsure of her veracity and keeping his own emotional distance.

  Over an hour dragged by. The sun set, the street lights came on and darkness settled over the suburban street. And still no sign of Larry Crutchfield.

  “Hungry?” he asked Jennifer.

  “Hungry enough to eat cold pizza,” she replied.

  He had to admire her fortitude. Other women would have complained long ago about the boredom, the cold, the discomfort of sitting so long doing nothing. She hadn’t grumbled once.

  He passed her a handful of paper napkins and the pizza box. “You think Crutchfield’s working late?”

  “More likely he has a social engagement.” She selected a large slice and returned the box to him. “Sometimes he changed into his tux at the office if he was going out.”

  Dylan helped himself to pizza. “So we may be in for a long wait.”

  A Lincoln Town Car drove slowly past. “They’re either looking for an address or wondering what we’re doing here,” Jennifer said.

  The car passed without slowing further and turned at the next street.

  “I’ve thought about contacting the homicide detectives who handled Max’s case.” Dylan wiped tomato sauce from the corner of his mouth. “Maybe they’ll share what they know with us.”

  “Go to the police?” Her voice slid up an octave. “Why? We haven’t any proof. Wouldn’t you rather see what we can turn up on our own first? Obviously the Atlanta cops have reached a dead end or they’d have made an arrest.”

  “Maybe they have something they could link to Crutchfield if they know he’s a suspect.” Curious at her reluctance to bring in the authorities, he studied her face.

  Her expression was barely visible in the deep shadows, but he could see the alarm that flickered over her features. “You can go if you wish,” she said, “but leave me out of it.”

  “But you’re the one with the information.”

  Her expression closed up tighter than a miser’s fist, as if she were afraid the slightest nuance might give away details she wanted to remain hidden.

  “Let’s see what we find on our own first,” she said, too casually.

  He suppressed the urge to grab her and shake her secrets from her. Knowing Jennifer, she’d only clam up tighter under pressure. But his imagination was running wild. What could she be hiding that she was so afraid of disclosing? Was she somehow involved in Max Thorne’s murder? His intuition told him she wasn’t a criminal. And Miss Bessie’s intuition, the best in the cove, had sensed only goodness in Jennifer Reid. If he could put Crutchfield behind bars, maybe then she might confide in him.

  And what happens if you don’t like what she tells you? an inner voice demanded.

  He’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

  Between them, they emptied the thermos of coffee and finished off the pizza as the hours dragged by. Dylan draped the blanket over their knees and drew Jennifer closer in an effort to keep warm. Ice formed on the windshield, and twice Dylan turned on the engine and the defroster to clear it away.

  He was enjoying the warmth of her curled against his side. This was a pleasure he could definitely get used to.

  Suddenly she sat upright and pulled away. “That’s Crutchfield’s midnight-blue Mercedes.”

  The luxury car pulled into the parking space in front of the townhouse. A man in a tuxedo climbed out of the driver’s seat and circled the car to the passenger side. Although the parking area was poorly lit, Jennifer immediately recognized the tall, well-built man in his mid-thirties as her former boss. He moved with elegance in his custom-tailored evening clothes, and the reflected moonlight made his blond hair appear silver. She didn’t have to see his eyes to remember their coldness and the hatred they’d projected when he’d caught sight of her in the Chicago train station.

  Crutchfield opened the passenger door.

  A pair of long, slender legs appeared as a woman exited the car. A long full-length velvet cloak with a hood concealed her from view, except when the garment parted to reveal a silver lamé cocktail dres
s that barely covered the woman’s thighs. Crutchfield took her in his arms and kissed her, a deep, probing kiss that continued for several minutes. The woman’s hood fell back, but all Jennifer could see was a crown of dark hair.

  “That’s pretty intense for a man who has no steady girl,” Dylan observed. “Do you recognize the woman?”

  The couple broke apart and headed for the front door. In the glow of the porch light, the woman turned and faced the street while Crutchfield unlocked the door.

  Jennifer gasped in surprise. “That’s Elissa Thorne. Max Thorne’s wife.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Not exactly the grieving widow, is she?” Sarcasm lent a harsh edge to Dylan’s rich voice. “What’s it been, five whole months since her husband’s murder?”

  Although Jennifer knew Crutchfield couldn’t see her in the dark, remembering their confrontation in Chicago, she slid lower in her seat. “Looks like Crutchfield’s good at consolation. Elissa seems—uh, enthusiastic.”

  “Maybe it’s not consolation.”

  Shaken by the bitterness in his voice, she turned from the preoccupied couple to Dylan. “What are you saying?”

  His brown eyes burned like dark coals in the dim light. “Could be Crutchfield and Mrs. Thorne were an item before Max’s death.”

  “You think Crutchfield killed Thorne to steal his wife?” As much as she disliked her former boss, she found the idea of that deception hard to swallow. “Wouldn’t a divorce have been a lot less messy?”

  “Probably.” The sharpness hadn’t left his voice. “But if Mrs. Thorne stood to inherit all of her late husband’s estate, a divorce with a maximum fifty-fifty split of assets wouldn’t be nearly as profitable.”

  Censure and disgust seemed to ooze from Dylan’s pores. Jennifer never wanted him to disapprove of her as thoroughly as he did Crutchfield, but she knew that time would come, especially when she revealed all she’d been hiding from him since the day they met. And that day was coming, sooner than she liked to think.

  “You know Crutchfield,” Dylan said. “Is he capable of killing for love?”

  Jennifer thought back to the man who had been her boss all those months. He’d been ambitious, self-centered, cold—and money-hungry. “I can’t see him putting himself in jeopardy for love. But if the stakes were high enough, he might risk murder for profit.”

  Turned toward Dylan, she could view the street behind them through the rear window. Suddenly, headlights appeared a block away, and the blue flash of a light bar lit the top of an approaching police car. It slowed as it neared and pulled to the curb behind them.

  Dylan glanced in the rearview mirror. “Looks like we’ll be bringing the police into our investigation whether you’re ready or not.”

  “Not necessarily.” Thinking quickly, she flung her arms around his neck. “Just follow my lead.”

  With a boldness she hadn’t known she possessed, she pressed her lips to his and wound her fingers through his hair. He stiffened as if in surprise, even as his arms reflexively closed around her. Shifting nearer, she pressed against him.

  She felt his muscles relax, and he drew her closer and returned her kiss. He tasted of coffee, sunshine and a distinctive masculine flavor, and his lips were warm, even in the frigid night air. A vein in his neck pulsed beneath her fingers, and his heart beat against her breasts. She breathed the air that he exhaled and sensed her pulse synchronize with his, as if they had become one.

  With her senses operating at maximum input, she forgot the approaching officer, forgot her many deceptions, forgot Larry Crutchfield’s threats as happiness swelled inside her. This was where she belonged, in the strong arms of Dylan Blackburn, a rugged, uncomplicated man of the mountains, steeped in solid principles and dedicated to protecting and serving the people he loved.

  “Jennifer,” he murmured when he came up for air, and the name on his lips sounded like a blessing.

  A sudden tapping on the driver’s window broke the spell. She pulled away, sorry that the moment had ended, shaken by the intensity of her feelings. She looked at Dylan to see if he had been affected as much as she, but he had turned away to roll down his window.

  The powerful beam of a flashlight temporarily blinded her before the police officer lowered the torch to his side. As her eyes adjusted again to the darkness, she could see the tall, black cop who leaned down until his face was framed by the window.

  “Don’t you folks have a home to go to?” Raised eyebrows and the irony in his voice left no doubt that he’d witnessed their kiss.

  Dylan opened his mouth to speak, but Jennifer beat him to the punch. She couldn’t allow him to give away the real reason they were parked along Crutchfield’s street. That information would give rise to other questions—questions she didn’t want to answer until the moment was right.

  “Of course we have a home, officer.” She gave him her Atlanta address. “But we like to come here and dream about which of these places we’ll live in when we win the lottery.”

  The cop looked at her as if she was a few bricks short of a load and turned to Dylan. “You got ID?”

  “Sure.”

  Dylan removed his driver’s license from his wallet, and Jennifer glanced across the street. Crutchfield and Mrs. Thorne had interrupted their passionate embrace long enough to stare at the truck and the police car, lights flashing, behind it. Jennifer prayed the darkness of the cab kept her unrecognizable. She was relying on Crutchfield’s reluctance to inconvenience himself to help others to keep him on his side of the street.

  “There isn’t a law against daydreaming, is there?” she asked.

  “Sorry, but we can’t be too careful. We’ve had several break-ins in this neighborhood recently, so we’re keeping close check of any suspicious persons.”

  “Do we look like burglars?” she asked.

  Dylan shot her a warning glance that under different circumstances might have caused her to cease all comments, and the officer ignored her. “Step out of the car, please, Mr. Blackburn.”

  Jennifer groaned and slid lower in her seat. If they ended up at the station, she’d have to answer those tough questions, whether she wanted to or not.

  “We’re not thieves,” she insisted.

  “Jennifer, please, let me handle this.” Dylan kept his hands on the steering wheel where the cop could see them. “Before I get out, officer, I want you to know I’m a policeman from Casey’s Cove, North Carolina, and I’m carrying a weapon in a holster at my back.”

  “Step out slowly and raise your hands,” the cop said.

  Dylan climbed out of the truck. Another police car approached from the opposite direction, made a U-turn and parked behind the first cruiser. The driver, a second officer, advanced toward the truck. “What have you got, Hayden?”

  “Don’t know yet. I’m going to run the ID and tags through the computer.” The black cop patted Dylan down, removed his gun and took it and his driver’s license back to his cruiser.

  “We haven’t done anything wrong,” Jennifer said heatedly, “unless necking has been declared a crime.”

  The other cop, a stocky, middle-aged white man, gazed in the window. “Stay in the truck, ma’am. Just keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Jennifer glanced across the street. Larry Crutchfield had left Elissa Thorne by the front door of his townhouse and was heading up the sidewalk toward the curb. Jennifer jerked around to hide her face.

  “What’s going on, officers?” he called across the street.

  Jennifer squirmed at his proximity. His smug, patronizing tone hadn’t mellowed in the five months since she’d last seen him.

  Don’t let him cross the street, she prayed.

  “Nothing we can’t handle,” the stocky officer shouted back. “You live here?”

  “In the first townhouse.”

  “Then I suggest you go on inside. We’re almost finished, and we don’t need an audience.”

  Jennifer smiled. The officer had put Crutchfield in his plac
e, a situation that was certain to make her old boss seethe. She heard his retreating footsteps ringing in the crisp, cold air. When she glanced across the street again, Crutchfield and Mrs. Thorne were entering the building.

  Dylan stood silently with the second officer while the first sat in his cruiser, talking on the radio. After at least ten long minutes, the black officer approached and returned Dylan’s gun and license.

  “Your story and ID check out,” he said. “Since you were on duty the nights of our other break-ins, you can’t be our burglar.”

  “Of course not,” Jennifer said, her voice hitting a high note of indignation. “Dylan’s the best cop I know.”

  The black cop regarded her through narrowed eyes, then turned to Dylan. “Your girlfriend’s a looker all right. But I can’t understand why you were making out here in the cold, when she has a place of her own.”

  Jennifer pretended offense. “You obviously have no sense of romance or adventure.”

  The stocky officer laughed. “Yeah, Hayden, didn’t you ever hear of an armstrong heater? A bit of nooky can warm up a truck cab in no time flat.”

  Jennifer avoided Dylan’s gaze. He was glaring at her as if he’d like to leave her out in the cold. Alone.

  Hayden scratched his chin. “Guess those armstrong heaters were before my time.”

  “Green as you are,” the older officer said with a laugh, “everything was before your time.”

  “Do you mind,” Jennifer said, “if we get going? It’s freezing out here.”

  The stocky cop nodded at Dylan, and he climbed into the truck. The cop approached and spoke through the window. “Just some friendly advice, Blackburn. If you intend to marry this woman, don’t count on getting a word in edgewise. She’s got quite a mouth on her.”

  Jennifer sputtered in outrage, but Dylan rolled up the window before she could fire a return volley. Her outrage increased when she noted his wide grin, but she was smart enough to keep quiet.

  The cops returned to their respective cars and waited for Dylan to leave. Dylan turned to her, smile gone, eyes blazing. “Why did you do that?”