In Harm's Way (6 page)

For a full minute she didn't answer. She sat there looking pensive, gazing across the room at nothing, lost in thought. Then she turned to him, and her eyes met his. “Grueling. Most people don't realize that it's very hard work. Long hours, uncomfortable poses. Hot lights and wind machines. Crabby photographers and—”

“Large paychecks?” he interrupted, teasing her.

Her sensuous lips twitched. “Yes, there are those.”

“Seeing your picture everywhere must give you a charge. Seems like every girl's dream.”

Her eyes darkened as her long lashes lowered and she glanced away, her slender fingers nervously pleating the edge of the soft wool throw he had draped over her. “More like a nightmare,” she muttered with a halfhearted laugh. She didn't sound bitter, exactly, just resigned. “I'm glad it's over. I felt like a reluctant exhibitionist even when the clothes weren't that revealing. And when they were, I was mortified every minute.”

“Funny, you don't strike me as shy,” he commented, though that wasn't strictly true. His perception of her changed like colors viewed through a prism. One minute she would seem totally on top of things, a real cosmopolitan. The next, she reverted to wariness and uncertainty, an innocent battling the big, bad world. Right now, her weariness was obvious, her guard down, allowing him a glimpse of Robin probably seen by few.

“Would you like to go to bed, Robin?” he asked.

Her eyebrows flew up, and she looked mighty offended, though she said nothing.

Mitch realized then what he had said and it made him laugh. “Not with
me!
” he clarified. “I only meant you should feel free to turn in whenever you feel like it. It has been a busy day, and I'm a little worn-out myself.”

Relief made her laugh, too. “Oh.” She looked embarrassed. “It's not that I thought you were really coming on to me, but—”

“You get that a lot, don't you? Propositions? Not surprising. A man would have to be blind or dead not to get turned on by how gorgeous you are. Even I…well, we'd better not go there,” he said with a wry twist of his lips. “You're safe with me.”

She didn't look convinced. “Looks aren't everything, you know. What's inside a person is much more important,” she stated primly, as if she'd made up the concept all by herself.

He cocked his head and shook one finger at her. “A hard lesson for guys to learn. Me included, I confess. I bet most people never get past that first impression you make, do they? I promise I'll look a little deeper, okay? If I forget, you just beat me over the head with your intelligence and your talent and I'll shape up.”

Her eyes narrowed and her hands stilled. “Are you patronizing me, Detective?”

Mitch made a face. “Sounded like that, didn't it? You're a
beautiful woman, no question about it, Robin. I'd be lying if I denied noticing that.” He looked her straight in the eye. “But I think there's a lot more to Robin Andrews than meets the eye.”

That seemed to please her, which was exactly what he'd intended. He added, “I'd like to get to know the real you.”

“Then I'm afraid you will have to wait until tomorrow. If you wouldn't mind, I think I will try to get some sleep. Where would you like me?”

Oh, God, what a loaded question. Everywhere, Mitch thought. Every which way. But he clamped the lid on his wayward thoughts and answered, “You can bunk in there in my bedroom and I'll take the sofa.”

She scanned the length of it as she got up. “You're too tall for it.”

“So are you,” he replied with a grin. “Let me suffer. I deserve it for
almost
hitting on you, right?”

She laughed, but it was a nervous laugh. Mitch knew she didn't quite trust him to behave.

“The door locks,” he told her, and watched her nod. He also didn't miss the slight exhalation that indicated relief.

“If you need anything you can't find in the bathroom—shampoo, extra towels or whatever—just let me know.”

She met his gaze directly then, without a hint of fear or embarrassment. “Thanks,” she said, her voice a breathy whisper.

Mitch wondered if he had misconstrued that look of hers as one of interest. Had he misread her altogether? Did she actually want him to make a play for her? Did she expect it of every man? He didn't know, but he'd bet his favorite A3 track that most every guy got around to it sooner or later.

She was under his skin. He was
smitten,
as Granny would say, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it but try to keep his cool and keep his hands off her.

Surprisingly, she hadn't kicked up a fuss at all when he had told her that he thought it would be wise for her to stay in his apartment for the night instead of across the hall.

He followed her to the door of the bedroom. “There are T-shirts in the top drawer over there if you want one to sleep in.”

Her gaze darted away from his and she was worrying that bottom lip something fierce.

“What's the matter, Robin?” he asked.

She forced her chin up. “This is just a bit awkward. I've never slept in a man's room before. They…always came to mine.”

“First time for everything,” he said, ushering her on into the bedroom. He knew he ought to stay out of there. He knew it. But he didn't. “Fresh sheets are stacked on the shelf in the closet. Plenty of pillows,” he said, grabbing one off the bed for himself, “I'll just take this one.”

“Okay,” she murmured, and turned at exactly the wrong time. Mitch found himself too close to her. Way too close. She was tall enough that their lips were scant inches apart.

All he would have to do was lower his head just a little and…

She quickly backed away and plopped down on the bed, bouncing a little. “Comfy,” she said, a bit too brightly, brushing her hands over the bedspread and giving it a pat.

“Yeah, I guess. There's a half bath in there,” he told her, nodding at the closed door. “The only full bath is down the hall, on your right.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice almost timid.

Mitch nodded once and left in a hurry before he forgot why he wasn't supposed to kiss her. Just in time, too.

Good thing he'd had a few hours' sleep today, he thought as he retired to the sofa for the night. He sure as hell wouldn't be getting any tonight.

 

Robin couldn't imagine what had possessed her to speak so frankly to a virtual stranger. Maybe that was the key. She had always heard it was easier to open up to someone you didn't know.

Once James's murder was solved, she would be able to leave Nashville and there would be no reason on earth why she should ever return. She'd never see Mitch again. In her wildest flight of imagination, she could not picture him, the quintessential Southerner, venturing North to New York. Why ever should he?

It seemed he had everything any man could want right here. From the way he talked about them, his family was a great part of his life.

He must be successful at his job, though she couldn't think anyone would truly enjoy dealing with crimes of violence. Perhaps he did. Some people thrived on solving problems and puzzles, which homicides certainly could be. He must have found a way to block out the unpleasant aspects of his work or else had grown impervious to them. Robin guessed he also must have altruistic reasons for choosing to do what he did. Mitch seemed the type. Someone had to take murderers out of circulation and protect the populace.

It surprised her that, doing what he did for a living, Mitch was not a bitter man. In fact, he possessed a gentle humor and optimism she had seldom, if ever, encountered in men with comparatively innocuous occupations. Maybe it was a Southern thing.

She smiled about that as she washed her face and prepared for bed. In the medicine cabinet, Robin located a new toothbrush still in its protective plastic. There were clean, colorful towels and washcloths rolled and handily tucked on a shelf over the commode. Robin removed one and patted her face dry, inhaling the fresh, subtle scent of fabric softener.

She liked his place. Everything was clean but not scrupulously neat. A bit of clutter only made it looked lived in, comfortable. Friendly. Robin figured she must have arrived several days after the maid had been here.

Then again, maybe he did his own housework. He certainly could cook. He also did dishes. And he was infinitely proud of this house. She could see why. It would make a lovely home for some lucky woman one of these days. There was a warmth here already that beckoned a person to relax and enjoy it. Or maybe it was just Mitch's open friendliness that made it seem so.

While she felt more at ease with him than she should, considering how briefly they had known each other, he also disturbed her in some elemental way.

He caused a certain, not unpleasant tension inside her that Robin recognized as sexual. That, in itself, was highly unusual. And almost reassuring. She had begun to think she was immune. Maybe she had always tried too desperately to grasp that feeling with James. This attraction to Mitch Winton had taken her totally by surprise.

Inappropriate as it was, she should mind it, but she didn't. It would come to nothing, of course, but Robin couldn't think of a single reason she couldn't secretly enjoy it while it lasted. Mitch need never know.

It could very well be something as simple as a delayed adolescent reaction. An infatuation. She'd never had one of those, not on movie idols, rock stars or even a handsome teacher. That's what came of not attending school the way other girls did, she supposed, never interacting normally with her peers. Never really having the time to fantasize.

Well, Mitch Winton certainly did fill the bill when it came to fantasy. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, kind when the occasion called for it, and it probably didn't hurt
matters that she was under his protection. Transference, probably.

Everything about him tantalized her. There was his scent, not totally accounted for by his faintly spicy aftershave. She had to fight the urge to draw closer and breathe more deeply when she was around him. And there was the way he spoke, his voice sending a slow curl of heat through her insides like a deep draught of Irish coffee. Hot, sweet and intoxicating.

In her own defense, she did try to avoid his touch. That tingling current whenever they connected in the slightest way was altogether too enticing. If she didn't watch it, she would give herself away.

Figuratively and literally.

The thought made her frown at herself in the mirror. “Silly idiot,” she muttered. “Behave.”

For now she would put her reaction to Mitch into perspective and give it only the momentary attention it deserved. She had far weightier problems to deal with than a belated schoolgirl crush.

She pulled on a soft, gray T-shirt with a Marine Corps logo nearly faded out of readability on the front. It hung on her slender frame, the folds caressing her bare skin, the loose drape of the knit mocking her lack of musculature and making her dwell on thoughts of his wide shoulders and the expanse of his chest. Robin doubted she would get much rest wearing this thing.

The soft knock on the bedroom door sent her scurrying out of the bathroom to answer. When she opened it, the object of her ruminations stood there with a glass of milk in his hand.

“Here you go,” he said. “My recipe for sleep. Guaranteed to work.”

Robin took it and sipped when he indicated she should. It was delicious. She licked her upper lip and peered up at him. “What is it?”

“Vanilla milk. Drop or two of flavoring and a spoonful of sugar. Great, huh?” He grinned. “Mama used to add red and blue food coloring, turn it an icky shade of lavender and tell us it came from purple cows. Ever heard that rhyme?”

She frowned. The man was an alien.

“‘Never saw a purple cow. Never hope to see one. But I can tell you anyhow, I'd rather see than be one,'” he recited.

“‘Reflections of a Mythic Beast,' Burgess wrote it,” she replied automatically.

He shook his head, laughed and tapped her nose playfully with his index finger. “Now how the hell did you know that?”

Robin shrugged. “Read it somewhere. Things stick. So what do purple cows have to do with getting to sleep?”

“Nothin' at all, smarty-pants. I just wanted an excuse to say good-night again.”

She sighed, looked at the glass of milk she was holding and raised her gaze to his. “Good night, Mitch,” she whispered.

A silence fraught with that delicious tension grew. Finally he moved back a step. “Sleep tight.”

Robin slowly closed the door, leaned against it and shut her eyes, holding fast to her last glimpse of him in spite of knowing better. Her breath shuddered out.

She was going to have to fight this after all. And it was going to take a lot more energy than she needed to spend. She wished she could enlist his help, but that would mean she'd have to admit her foolishness. And tell him she recognized his.

T
he day dawned cool, gray and held the promise of rain. “Mornin'. I'm a little short on groceries,” Mitch said when she appeared in the kitchen fully dressed, hair perfect, apparently ready to face the day. Except for her bare feet. “Tell you what. We'll stop somewhere for breakfast, then swing by my parents' house this morning. Susan has a computer, so we can check out the disk. She can loan you some shoes. Clothes, too.”

He handed her a cup of coffee. Black, as he figured she would like it.

“Susan?” she asked, sounding disgruntled. “Who is Susan?”

“My sister. She's about your size.”

“I'm not wearing anyone else's clothing and shoes and that's all there is to it! I never have and do not intend to start now!”

“Aw, c'mon, don't tell me you and your girlfriends didn't used to swap clothes. Jeez, seems like there was always a house full of giggling wanna-be fashion plates around when I was growing up. Sue was the world's worst for borrowing things. She does have a lot of clothes and shoes, even now, and would be happy to share.”

Robin merely looked at him as if he was making it all up. “No,” she said simply with a look that shut him up.

He considered her predicament while she drank her coffee. She was dressed in what she'd worn all day yesterday and the evening before. Her suit was a mass of wrinkles, but the rest of her looked like a million bucks. Not a hair out of place. “Okay. I guess we'll have to buy you some.”

She looked almost as horrified by the idea of shopping with him. He wouldn't want to disappoint her. He knew just the strip mall with a jam-up dollar store.

“Come on. Let's shop!” Then he smiled. “Bet you never thought you'd hear a guy throwin' around that kind of invitation, did you?”

With her nose in the air, she slung her purse strap over her shoulder, marched right past him and exited the apartment with all the polish of a runway model. Which made perfect sense, he reminded himself, as he followed her downstairs.

Even the color on her toenails matched her getup. No doubt about it, the girl had class to spare.

She also had a dead husband, and might even be involved up to her gorgeous neck in whatever had gotten Andrews killed. He didn't think so, but he could be wrong. Beauty, class, murder and intrigue. A detective's dream, that's what she was. Mitch admitted he was fascinated with her and couldn't help it. Not that he could afford to do anything about that, other than own up to it and make sure she didn't find out.

When she reached the front door, she stopped so abruptly he almost stumbled against her. “What's the matter?”

She peered through the etched glass sidelights that framed the door. “Do you think we'll be followed?” Her voice was nearly a whisper.

“It's possible, but I'll know it if we are and I'll deal with it,” he said with conviction. “I'm pretty sure now that whoever killed Andrews was looking for that disk and still is. However, your visitor yesterday gave up way too easily to have been one of those guys from the diner, though, don't you think? It could have been a neighbor, a deliveryman, just about anybody.”

She let out a breath and her shoulders sagged a little. “I hope you're right. But they could be out there now, waiting.”

“Would you rather stay here? I could call Susan, have her bring the computer over. We don't have to go out.” Maybe that would be best, anyway. She looked sort of shaky.

Her shoulders straightened and she took one last look out the sidelight. “No, let's do it. Let's go.”

“Atta girl!” Mitch said, giving her a gentle pat on the back.

She immediately arched to escape his touch, then glanced over her shoulder with a wary expression. Well, he should have known better. She had let him hold her hand, brush the hair off her face and guide her through doorways with his hand at her back before. But that was when she had really been terrified and probably in shock. It didn't count.

Obviously, Robin Andrews was not much of a toucher and liked her space uninvaded, thank you very much. Someone must have made her overly cautious and suspicious at some time in her life. Understandable. She said she'd once been a model like it was a dirty word. Now she chose to work in isolation, on a computer, designing Web pages.

He'd bet money she never even met her clients in person. Her choice of occupation told him something about her right
there. She'd pretty much given up on the human race. The male half, anyway. Well, after her friend-slash-husband screwed around on her while they were married, what could you expect? Her mother didn't sound all that terrific, either, kicking her out when she stopped making the money.

Robin badly needed to get her mind off her troubles for a while. Maybe he could give her a few more hours to rest and regroup before they got down to brass tacks.

He led the way out to his old Bronco and opened the door for her. At least she allowed him to do that. He slammed it shut and went around to the driver's side and got in.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“A little.” She flashed him a tentative smile, almost like an apology. That touched him. Maybe she didn't really like being the ice princess, but just couldn't help being how she was.

“Judging by the way you ate last night, you're a fruit and yogurt girl, I bet,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

She laughed timidly. “That would be good.”

“No,” he said with a laugh, “that wouldn't be good. That would be
healthy.
Grits would be good.”

“I haven't had the pleasure.”

“You never had grits? For real? Hey, unless you're passing right on through Dixie without stopping, you have got to eat grits. It's the law, and I
am
a cop!”

“All right, all right,” she said, giving in to the laugh she'd been suppressing. “I'll try it. But I want something else to eat in case I don't like it.”

“Them,” he instructed automatically as he backed out of the driveway. “Grits are plural. You try
them.
”

She cast him a doubtful look. “We don't even speak the same language, do we?”

He tossed her a grin. “I'll teach you. It's almost as easy as Greek.”

They stopped at the little mall with the clothing and discount shoe store he'd been thinking about. Mitch had figured she'd be in and out of there in a flash, but he was wrong. She took so much time choosing her shoes, she might as well have been in Sak's and paying a fortune for them.

He watched, antsy as any guy would be while waiting around in a women's clothing store, as she selected several pullover shirts, three pairs of pants and a stack of what Grandma Dolly called unmentionables.

In Robin's case, these last items were skimpy little scraps of lace that Grandma would have blushed to look at. Mental images of Robin wearing what she was buying had him shifting uncomfortably as he stood waiting for her to pay.

She took it as impatience. “Sorry, I'd forgotten how much fun shopping is,” she admitted as she plunked down her Visa card. “I do most of my buying online these days.”

Well, that explained everything. Mitch experienced a little pang of pity for her. What in the world could make a woman give up shopping? The females in his family lived for it. Their daily Wal-Mart expeditions were a social experience.

Lord, this was worse than he'd thought.

He got no complaints when he took her to Brown's Restaurant, a buffet place near his parents' house.

The first thing she did was hit the ladies' room and change her clothes. When she emerged wearing the inexpensive yellow pullover and long skinny jeans that looked as if she'd been poured in them, she still looked like a million bucks. Yep, Robin Andrews wore clothes well. Even discount stuff looked pricey when she put it on. He wished he could stop thinking about those little lacy numbers she'd picked out to go under the rest.

“Hey, look at you!” he said as she rejoined him at the table. “Feel better?”

Her smile was pure delight. “I do. But I'm starving!”

At the buffet she piled a plate high with fruit, cottage cheese and dry toast. So much for his idea that women like her ate light.

He watched as she wolfed down a sizable breakfast in half the time it took him to eat his.

Then she polished off her juice and a cup of black coffee. “I
never
eat this much,” she explained as if she'd done something wrong, “but I was so hungry.”

He smiled and motioned the waitress to refill their cups.

“I suppose it's show time,” she said, and picked up her spoon. With a determined look on her face, she drove it directly toward his plate, scooped up a spoonful and stuffed it in her mouth.

Mitch watched with great interest as she chewed, her expression changing with every movement of her jaw. Finally she swallowed, took another sip of coffee and sighed with pleasure. “It…rather,
they
aren't that bad, actually. Taste very like potatoes.”

Mitch deadpanned. “That's because they are.”

No grits, no shopping in stores and not even any hash browns in her life? Did the poor girl live in a New York cave?

 

Robin had to admit she liked Mitch Winton. His Southern drawl wound around her senses and made her want to relax and forget the real reason she was stuck in Nashville. The accent had irritated her at first, but then she had been upset, not herself and scared of what he might do.

Also, the mixed signals he sent had confused her. Great concern for her comfort did not compute with obvious suspicion. Now, of course, she realized he was concerned out of a natural courtesy. And he'd explained why he had to consider her a suspect. Mitch was up-front about it all, she had to give him that.

His teasing her was just a thing he did naturally, without any thought at all, she suspected. It wasn't even flirting. If he had planned to hit on her, he would have done it already.

Mitch was different from any man she had ever known, thank God. That alone was reason enough to like him.

“…so Susie spent a whole hour in the corner while Mama recovered from the frog in the lunch box. I was the angel of the family.”

“Why do I doubt that?” Robin asked, laughing at his family anecdote. “You put the frog there, didn't you?”

“Me? Now that's a sexist assumption if I ever heard one. Susie handled her own frogs. It was worms she couldn't stand. But that's a whole other story.”

She appreciated what he was doing, trying to get her to lighten up. It had worked, too. Robin hadn't looked behind them for a car following or worried about anything else for a good five minutes or so. The cadence of his voice and the flash of humor in his eyes when he glanced over at her put her more at ease than she had been with a man since James left New York.

Mitch pulled the Bronco into the double driveway of a modest ranch-style house set on the corner of a street in what must have been one of the older suburbs of the city. Robin tensed.

“Here we go. You're about to meet the infamous Winton crew. They're loud but fairly harmless. Looks like they're not all here, anyway.”

At the thought of meeting them, Robin's composure took an immediate nosedive. She wasn't good with people. On the phone she was okay, but in person she usually just faked a haughtiness that had served her well on the runway and at parties she'd had to attend years ago. It put off conversation and kept everyone at a distance. Not since her separation from James had she been forced to socialize with a group of peo
ple, and even then he hadn't required much of that. At least he had understood that flaw of hers.

She figured she ought to explain. “Mitch, I should wait in the car. I'm not very good at—”

“Shy, huh? Don't worry, they won't let you be,” he said, smiling. “Just slap on a grin and nod. They'll be your best friends. Trust me.”

That again.
Robin sighed as she got out and followed Mitch to the door. Instead of knocking, he opened it and walked right in. Robin hung back, appalled by the act. She had never in her entire life violated anyone's privacy by entering their home uninvited.

“Hey, where is everybody?” Mitch shouted as he barged right through the small foyer into a comfortably furnished living room. “I brought company!”

A short, gray-haired woman appeared wearing jeans and an orange sweatshirt with a University of Tennessee logo on the front. She held a rubber spatula in one hand. “Hey, baby,” she said, hugging Mitch and tiptoeing to kiss his cheek. “Daddy's gone to the store. You just missed him. Y'all come on back to the kitchen. I'm right in the middle of a cake.” She smiled sweetly at Robin. “Hi, honey.”

“Mama, this is Robin Andrews. Robin, my mother, Patricia Winton.”

“Mrs. Winton,” Robin acknowledged, immediately attempting to compare the smiling stranger to her own mother. There were no comparisons. Not in looks, not in expression, not in congeniality. At a total loss, Robin said nothing further.

“Oh, call me Pat,” the woman said, waving the spatula in Robin's direction as she led the way through the dining room. “All Mitch's friends do.” She nodded toward the stools surrounding a large kitchen island. “Have a seat. I'll be through here in a minute and make us some coffee.”

“I'll do it,” Mitch offered, heading for the coffeemaker. “How're the kids doing?”

“Fine. Mack made the football team. Finally.”

“Good for him. Lily's grades up any?”

“Not so's you'd notice,” she said with a grimace.

Kids? How many were in this family? Robin wondered. And whose kids were they?

His mother continued. “Paula needs a good talking to, Mitch. Boy crazy.” One eyebrow raised as her lips quirked to one side. She shared a knowing look with her son.

“Sic Susie on her. That'll straighten her out.” He swiped a long finger along the edge of the bowl his mother was stirring as he passed by and licked the batter off his finger. “Mmm, pineapple pound cake. My favorite.”