Beckett's Convenient Bride (10 page)

“What Kit's trying to say, sir, is she might not be available.”

His flabby cheeks suddenly reddening, the judge glared at him, then turned to Kit. “What d'you mean, not available? You don't even know the date yet, so don't play your silly little games with me, girl.”

Kit opened her mouth to speak, but Carson, covering her cold fingers with his own, took over. He might not know what was going on here, but he damned sure knew intimidation when he heard it. “What Kit means, sir, is that she's going home with me for a visit. We're not sure how long it will last, but my mother hasn't been well and she enjoys company. Then there's Lance and Liza, they live close by. You remember Kit's cousin Liza, don't you?”

He was damned sure the bastard didn't.

The old judge started to bluster, but cut it off. After
shooting a meaningful look at his protégé, he wheeled about and stalked off.

“You ready?” Carson asked, wanting to get her the hell away before anyone else tried to jerk her strings.

“Give me one minute.”

While Kit made her way across the room to speak to her grandmother, Carson headed for the buffet again. Bypassing the stack of gold-rimmed china plates, he filched a couple of napkins and loaded them with finger food. The napkins were linen, which made it petty thievery, but what the hell. If food could help wipe away that stricken look on Kit's face, then he'd damn well feed her until she couldn't fit into that dress of hers.

After that, he would…

Don't go there, man. Don't even go there.

“I
knew it would be bad,” Kit said as soon as they were in the car, headed out the boxwood-lined circular driveway. “It always is, but—” She shook her head, then pressed two fingers to the pucker line between her eyebrows. “Why can't he ever learn? He's not stupid—far from it. It's the control thing, you know. He's just like my father was. It's always about control.”

He wanted to ask about her parents, but knowing Kit, anything of importance would emerge soon enough if he let her ramble. He had learned through experience which tactics worked best on which personality types, even figuring in the fear factor. Which wasn't even a factor in this case. Trouble was, Kit wasn't a type, she was simply Kit, who didn't owe him any answers.

For several minutes the only sound was the whine of high-performance radials on damp pavement. Evidently there'd been a shower earlier. He thought about playing
a CD as quiet, disarming background noise, but decided against it. She'd talk when she felt like talking, and if she didn't…

There was no law that said she had to talk to him.

“You cold?” he asked when the silence had stretched over several miles. Not that he was uncomfortable with silence, but this particular silence was too full of things that needed saying. On both sides.

When she didn't reply, he glanced over at her. She was shivering. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees since they'd set out, probably when the showers passed through. Inside the car it was warm enough, though.

She took a deep breath and straightened up. “Cold? No, I'm fine. You do know what he's doing, don't you?”

It took him a minute to get up to speed. He ventured a guess. “Your grandfather?”

“He's matchmaking,” she said grimly. “I ask you, does my grandfather strike you as the sentimental type?”

“Not particularly.” A car passed on a long curve. Other than that, there was practically no traffic. “You think he's trying to pair you up with whatsisname? Hart?”

“More like engineering a merger, with him as the controlling partner,” she responded bitterly. “He's not particularly subtle, is he?”

About as subtle as a sledgehammer. Carson watched the dark, flat countryside roll past and reduced his speed a few miles. “Wanna share?” he teased after several more minutes passed in silence. “You tell me yours and I'll tell you mine?”

Not that there was much to tell on his part. He had a feeling that what little there was was about to slip away, but that was another issue.

“Randolph—nobody's allowed to call him Randy since
he was made a partner in the firm—anyway, his father and my father were friends. Mr. Hart was on the same plane my parents were on when it crashed. You probably remember—it made headlines long enough a few years back. There was this big investigation and all sorts of rumors about a bomb or a missile. One theory was that there was this mob boss who was about to go on trial. My father was the prosecuting attorney, and some people thought they blew up the plane he was on to send a message.”

She shivered again, and Carson nudged the heat up a notch. It was either that or pull over and offer to share his body heat. Which just might present a distraction neither of them needed at this point.

After another long silence, she picked up the conversation where she'd left it. “He thought he could take over after my father died, you know. Old Cast Iron, I mean. My grandfather.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. A judge taking over his son's law practice?

“Not the firm—me.” She answered the unvoiced question. “He thought he could step in and take over my life, like I was one of his chess pieces. I was supposed to start by going to this fancy junior college—not for an education, you understand, but as sort of a holding tank until he figured out what he wanted to do with me next. Now, of course, he's got it all figured out, only I'm getting too old and he's royally ticked off.”

“Too old for what?”

“It has to do with my father's will. Oh, let's not get into that, it's too depressing.”

“Right.” He waited to see if any more information would be forthcoming.

“Well.” She adjusted her shoulder strap and said some
thing about satin being so slippery. “I've never worn it before—at least not on the outside. I hate waste, though. I bought it on sale for an autograph session when my first book came out, but I ended up wearing clam-diggers and a Hawaiian print shirt. It was at Nags Head, you know. Good thing, too. I'd probably have slid right out of my chair. It was one of those folding metal ones, but they had a lovely flower arrangement with lollipops and daisies.”

Evidently, the topic of wills and meddling grandfathers was closed. Carson shuffled the information into proper sequence and filled in a few gaps. He was getting used to her mode of expression, which was random, to put it mildly. Might be interesting to take a look at one of her books before he left, just to see if she rambled through a story the same way she rambled through everything else.

“Is that wind making the car rock like that? No wonder I'm freezing.”

The breeze had picked up, but it wasn't particularly cold. “You're welcome to my jacket. Shirt, too, if you need it, but I'm not going to offer to change clothes with you. I have to tell you, purple's not my best color.”

She laughed, which might have been the object of the whole inane exchange. “It's not purple, it's fuchsia.” Then she sighed. “What a mess. Carson, I'm sorry as I can be I dragged you into it, but I really do appreciate your being there. I mean everything that's happened lately, not just the party. If I'd gone there alone tonight, I'd have walked out in a fit of temper and probably ended up getting arrested for speeding.”

In the Ladybug? He doubted if she'd have been able to meet the minimum speed limit, but was tactful enough not to say so.

“And then, of course, someone would notify grandfather and he'd show up to bail me out and then he'd find
out about the rest of my mess and insist that I go back home with him so he could ruin the rest of my life.”

Her mess. That was one way of putting it. “I doubt if you'd be jailed. I don't think the laws are that different in North Carolina, but don't let that stop you if you're on a roll.”

She sliced off a quick, sidelong grin that touched a place that hadn't been touched in a long, long time—if ever. “Okay, so I exaggerate a little. It's my creative side. I like to make a short story long and a dull story fancy.”

“Fancy?”

She shrugged again. It wasn't the first time he'd noticed that about her—that she used her whole body and not just her hands when she talked.

“Actually, except for a few minor details, I have my life pretty much under control.”

“Right. Minor details like murder.” Maybe he should mention that a bit of grandfatherly interest at this point might not be the worst thing that could happen to her. It was not only her creative imagination that was making her jumpy about this murder business. Like it or not, she was a player.

She shivered again. She'd refused his coat the first time he'd offered it. This time he didn't offer. Seeing a turnoff just ahead, he pulled over and shut off the engine. She looked startled, then wary. “Is someone tailing us?” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the dark highway.

Carson eased his arms from the sleeves of his jacket. “I'm getting hot—thought you might have changed your mind about wearing it.”

Without waiting for an answer, he reached over and draped it around her shoulders, then tugged her forward and smoothed it down over her back. “There, that ought
to do it,” he muttered, jerking his hands away before they could get into trouble. Ever since he'd seen her preening in front of her bedroom mirror, holding that dress up in front of her, he'd been conscious of a growing sexual awareness. Suddenly, tension was snapping in the air like a live wire. Was he the only one affected? Once or twice tonight he'd caught her looking at him in a way that…

That was sheer wishful thinking on his part. There was nothing of a personal nature happening here—although sexual was not necessarily personal. On the other hand, with Kit, it would be.

Oh, yeah.

“What are you thinking?” she asked out of the blue.

“Nothing,” he said, guilt and embarrassment making him feel like a raw kid. He'd known her for what—two days? He was no stranger to the occasional random attack of testosterone. But not with Kit. Whatever was between them was about to end, once he'd handed over the check—that damned check.

Besides, there was Margaret.

“You know what?” she said suddenly, squirming deeper into his coat like a kitten on a feather pillow. “I'm going to make some excuse to Jeff and just disappear until everything's settled. I hate to leave him shorthanded, but it's not like he's really rushed yet. Bambi can handle it.”

She turned up the collar of his jacket, and without thinking, he reached out and lifted her hair outside. It was warm and alive. Her faint fruity scent eddied around him, and he thought, I gotta get out of here, I'm flat-out losing it.

As if totally oblivious to the meltdown taking place in the seat beside her, Kit said thoughtfully, “I'm pretty sure I can finish the illustrations from memory. I've already done the sketches and value studies. I can look around for
another job and a place to stay. I really like Gil's Point, but you know what? I think something—or someone, is trying to tell me it's time to move on.” After a moment she added, “I believe in fate, I really do.”

She believed in
fate?

When it came to the
F
word, Carson believed in family, food and fishing, in that order. Fate was not something he'd spent a whole lot of time pondering.

“I have a better idea,” he heard himself saying. “Why not come home with me, like we told your grandfather?”

Jesus. Where did that come from?

“Oh, I couldn't,” she said, but he could tell it was a halfhearted protest.

Before his brain could cut in, he dug himself in even deeper. “I wasn't lying when I said my mother loves company. I have to warn you, though—she might not even recognize me. She's in the early stages of Alzheimer's.”

Without waiting for a response to his impulsive invitation, he switched on the engine and shifted into Reverse. Both his hands were occupied, so this time instead of touching his arm, she laid her hand on his thigh. Same cold fingers; same electrifying grip. Margaret wasn't a toucher. His mother was, and so was his Aunt Becky.

Kit's touch was in a whole different category.

“Carson, I'm so sorry. You certainly don't have to follow through just because of what you told my grandfather. I've been on my own for seven years, and I've managed just fine. I drive hundreds of miles, looking for story locations—you see, I have to be able to visualize things— I mean, even before I start writing, I need to know where a story will take place. What I'm trying to say is, I know lots of places to go if I want to disappear for a while.”

“Sure you do,” he said, pulling out onto the highway. They were no more than fifteen or twenty minutes from
Gil's Point. “Still, why not humor me? See, I have this personal problem…”

He toyed with the idea of telling her about his mother's fixation on weddings and Margaret, his “sort-of” fiancée, who'd been taking a few too many trips to New York lately. Before he could decide, she leaned forward and peered through the windshield.

“What's that glow up ahead? Look—over there.” They were approaching the bridge at Coinjock over the inland waterway. To the north, about where Gilbert's Point would be located, the night sky was suspiciously red.

“Wrong season for the Northern Lights,” he murmured. “Brush fire reflected on low clouds?” He had a funny feeling it was something far different. The only thing he'd seen in that general direction was water, marsh and a few wooded knolls. Nothing to support a sustained fire.

By the time they topped the bridge, the location was no longer a mystery. The brightness had diminished to a sullen glow, and it was definitely centered in the vicinity of Gilbert's Point.

“Oh, God, not the Crab House,” Kit murmured. “They've been on him about that exhaust fan….”

Carson didn't bother to ask who “they” were. It wasn't the restaurant, or anything else along the waterfront. By the time they'd reached the tiny waterfront settlement, the source of the glow was all too evident. Creeping along through the huddled spectators and emergency vehicles, Carson pulled up beside the abandoned house that stood a few hundred feet away from what remained of Kit's rental house.

She hadn't said a word, but he could hear her shuddering breath. Feeling a degree of rage that was surprising, considering the kinds of cases he'd been working on for
the past few years, he swore silently. She didn't need this, not on top of everything else. A total loss—the house, everything in it—even her car.

They'd left the Ladybug parked in its usual place, beside a lone section of picket fence. The fence was down, either burned or trampled by the emergency crews. They were all there—firemen, deputies, EMTs—an ambulance was pulled over to one side.

Silently, he surveyed the crowd before turning his attention back to the ruins. The fire was mostly out by now, only a few hot spots flaring up. The only thing left standing was a chimney, the plumbing and the refrigerator.

He turned to Kit, an irreverent crack on the tip of his tongue. Stress occasionally brought out that sort of thing among cops. Sometimes the tension needed just releasing.

Whatever he'd been going to say went unsaid.

Staring straight ahead, she was about as still as a body could be and still breathe. As if sensing his gaze on her, she turned to him, her eyes dark with pain. With shock. “I had an appointment to get the transmission repaired,” she said with quiet dignity.