My Heart's Desire (11 page)

Jarret reached for his valise and rooted through it until he found his buck knife. He unsheathed it and knelt beside Rennie to cut her bonds. He was leaning over her, the knife poised next to her hands, mere inches away from her face, when Rennie woke.

Jarret was close enough to feel Rennie's chest heave as she gulped in air. He managed to get a hand over her mouth before her scream reached a glass-shattering pitch. Her struggles forced him to toss aside the knife before he hurt her with it.

He spoke to her gently. "I want to let you go. There's no reason to scream. I'm not going to hurt you."

She couldn't breathe. His hand covered her mouth and nose, and the pressure cut off her air. She shook her head and struggled harder, trying to get him to dislodge his hand. Her eyes were wide and panicked. She clawed at the bedpost, and the knots were pulled more tightly on her wrists.

Mrs. Cavanaugh knocked on the door to Jarret's room. "Mr. Sullivan, are you in there? I'm looking for Rennie. I can't find"—she opened the door a crack and poked her head in—"her anywhere."

Jarret's hand slipped from Rennie's mouth as the cook screamed. He sat back on his haunches, shaking his head and gazing heavenward. Rennie sucked in great draughts of air and began tearing a strip into him that would have put a sailor to shame.

Jarret picked up his knife, tossed it on the bed, and stood. He left Rennie where she was and walked directly past the hysterical Mrs. Cavanaugh. "Less bawling than this in a Chicago stockyard," he muttered disgustedly.

Chapter 3

Mrs. Cavanaugh rushed in the room as soon as Jarret exited. "Has he hurt you?" She dropped to her knees beside Rennie and stroked her hair. "What was he doing? Has he lost his mind?" She crossed herself. "Saints! That your mother could have just gone off and left you. Sure, and I'll never understand. I'm getting the mister right now and sending him for the constabulary. I'm not leaving you alone with Mr. Sullivan anymore."

Rennie summoned patience. It was clear to her now that Jarret never intended her any harm, not that what he had done was in any way forgivable, but he hadn't had murder as his motive. "Could you release me, Mrs. Cavanaugh?" she asked, indicating her bound wrists.

The cook's hand fell away from Rennie's hair. "What? Oh! Of course!" Her capable fingers, strengthened by years of kneading dough and peeling potatoes, immediately took up the task. "Sure, and I can't imagine what I was thinkin', going on while you're trussed like my best Christmas goose."

Rennie smiled weakly at the comparison. "The knife he left behind would be better suited to the task," she said.

Mrs. Cavanaugh glanced at the buck knife, then at the series of knots again. Her narrow face was set in disapproval. "I've got a meat cleaver that would do the job with more finesse."

Rennie was helpless to do anything but wait. She was uncomfortably aware of certain body functions that required attending. The thought that she might have to relieve herself right where she lay was another reason to contemplate Jarret Sullivan's slow, tortured death.

"Here, and I'll have it in a moment," Mrs. Cavanaugh said, picking at the last knot. "The man's a brute."

Rennie concurred. "A monster."

"A madman."

"A cretin."

Mrs. Cavanaugh nodded. "Handsome, though, wouldn't you say?"

Rennie's hands were suddenly free. She used the bedpost to pull herself upright and let the cook gingerly massage her wrists. "What have his looks to do with anything?" she demanded. "His behavior's been reprehensible."

"Oh, yes," the cook said quickly. "There's no excuse, of course. I was just saying, though, that he's rather a fine figure of a man. It's neither here nor there, just an observation." Ignoring Rennie's sour look, Mrs. Cavanaugh helped her to her feet. "I'll see about the police now. Your mother told me the man was sworn to protect you. I'm thinkin' she'd want him out now."

"She certainly would," Rennie said feelingly. "She'd want him in jail."

Mrs. Cavanaugh escorted Rennie to her own room, helped her draw a bath, and then went downstairs to search for her husband. It occurred to her that in twenty-four years of knowing Mary Renee no situation was ever as straightforward as it seemed. Making a sudden decision, she left Mr. Cavanaugh to his pruning in the side yard and sought out Mr. Sullivan instead.

* * *

The lure of bread baking and bacon frying drew Rennie to the kitchen. Mrs. Cavanaugh stood in front of the large iron stove, scrambling eggs and eyeing the perfectly round pancakes bubbling and browning on the grill.

"It all smells wonderful," Rennie said. She crossed the kitchen to stand at the cook's side and put one arm around Mrs. Cavanaugh's slender shoulders. "Can I help you with something?"

"There's coffee brewing. You might see if it's ready."

Rennie smiled, not at all surprised that she was given such a simple task. Mrs. Cavanaugh was invariably suspicious of Rennie's help in the kitchen. "You know, Mrs. Cavanaugh, I've really got to learn to cook someday."

"Not in
my
kitchen."

Looking down at the cook's pristine apron, Rennie sighed. In spite of Mrs. Cavanaugh's activity of the last hour, her apron was spotless, the table was clear, the sink was empty, and the floor was clean. Rennie, on the other hand, made a mess filling saltshakers.

"In fact," the cook was saying, "you'd better step away from the stove before you get burned." She'd no sooner spoke than a bubble of grease exploded on the skillet and splashed the back of Rennie's hand. "There! See that! Go on with you. Put it under cold water, then have a seat at the table. I can't cook and be watchin' for what mischief happens here when you're around."

Laughing, Rennie did as she was told. "Has Mr. Cavanaugh gone for the police?"

"Everything's been taken care of."

That surprised Rennie. She hadn't heard any sort of commotion upstairs. It seemed unlikely that Jarret would vacate the house without some manner of protest. "He didn't draw his gun, did he?"

Mrs. Cavanaugh shook her head. She flipped a pancake with a flick of her wrist and then went back to stirring the eggs.

"I half expected that he might."

"Well, he didn't."

Rennie became aware of an edge of impatience in the cook's voice. She saw now that Mrs. Cavanaugh's movements were rather stiff and tightly controlled. She seemed to be attacking the food, spearing the bacon and catapulting the pancakes. She set out a tray, added two plates, and stacked pancakes on one and arranged the bacon and eggs on the other. The cook placed a mug on the tray, filled it with hot, black coffee, surveyed her handiwork, and hefted it off the counter.

Rennie's eyes widened at the heap of food. She held up both hands, shaking her head. "I couldn't possibly eat that much."

"I don't expect you could," Mrs. Cavanaugh said briskly. "That's why there's tea in the pot and two warm muffins in the oven. This is for Mr. Sullivan."

Rennie had no difficulty reading the cook's emphatic nod and smile. Both clearly said, "So there." Dumbfounded, she watched Mrs. Cavanaugh march out of the kitchen.

* * *

Jarret slid the
Chronicle
aside when Mrs. Cavanaugh entered the dining room. His reaction was similar to Rennie's when he saw the portions prepared for him. "I think you've overestimated my appetite just a bit," he told her.

"Sure, and go on with you," she said, setting down the tray. "Can't imagine a man like you not needin' something after the night you had."

Jarret opened his napkin and laid it across his lap. Under Mrs. Cavanaugh's watchful eye he tucked into the food she set before him.

"Exactly what sort of night was it?" Rennie asked from the doorway. Her cheeks were flushed hotly, and her hands were balled into fists at her side. "What have you told Mrs. Cavanaugh?"

Jarret rose briefly, indicated the chair at the corner to his right, and continued eating. Glancing worriedly between Jarret and Rennie, Mrs. Cavanaugh eased herself out of the room. Rennie thrust white-knuckled fists into the pockets of her dove gray day dress.

"She was going to send her husband for the police," Rennie said. Her voice did not sound completely her own. It was brittle with the strength of her anger. She was hardly aware that her feelings were oddly misplaced, not directed at Mrs. Cavanaugh at all, but at Jarret.

"Perhaps she has," Jarret said carelessly. His eyes wandered to the folded newspaper beside his plate. He began to read a crisply told account of a murder in the Bowery.

Rennie approached the table. "Stop that. You know very well you're only pretending to read to avoid my questions."

Preoccupied, it was a moment before Jarret looked up. "I'm sorry. You were saying..."

"You're doing this on purpose," she said, her eyes accusing. "No one can be this aggravating except by design."

Jarret considered that. "Really? I find it works as a general guiding principle."

Rennie kicked out the chair beside him and sat down heavily. Her hands came out of her pockets and gripped the gracefully curved armrests. There was some small part of her that recognized she was not fighting him as much as she was fighting the urge to laugh. Conflicting emotion did not set well with Rennie. She liked having things clearly delineated, ordered and catalogued. Amusement and anger did not belong in the same file.

"What did you tell Mrs. Cavanaugh?" she asked again.

"The truth." Jarret offered her a strip of crisp bacon. "Get yourself a plate and join me."

Rennie took the bacon but shook her head at his suggestion. "What sort of truth?" she asked.

"Are there different sorts? That's a rather ponderous, philosophical question, isn't it?" He raised his mug of coffee, held it between his palms, and gave a good account of himself as a man in deep contemplation.

Rennie quelled the urge to tip hot coffee all over his chest. "I'm losing patience with you, Mr. Sullivan."

He nodded. "Then, we're on equal footing." He sipped his coffee, placed the mug down, and speared some eggs. "I told Mrs. Cavanaugh exactly what happened here last night, no more, no less. Interestingly enough, shortly after three this morning she and her husband were awakened by dogs barking all over the neighborhood. Her experience only reinforced what I was telling her. She understands perfectly why I was forced to... to..." He paused. A glimmer of a smile came and went across his face. "To truss you like a Christmas goose, I believe is what she said."

Rennie snapped off a piece of bacon with her teeth and glared hard at Jarret. "You must have enjoyed hearing that."

"It was an interesting point. I had likened the experience to calf roping, you see, so I appreciated hearing Mrs. Cavanaugh's perspective."

She was thankful she had already swallowed because surely she would have choked. "I want to see Hollis today," she said in flat, no-nonsense accents. "Can that be arranged?"

"I said I would do it, didn't I?"

"I hardly know you well enough to say if you're a man of your word."

All vestige of humor left him. The brilliant sapphire eyes darkened and grew cold. The lines of his face became more defined, the set of his features gravely serious. The only movement was a faint working of his jaw. "I think you're lying, Miss Dennehy. The one thing you know for sure about me is I'm a man of my word." He looked at her for a moment longer, spearing her with his glance; then he said quietly, "Now, if you'll excuse me."

When he didn't move, but began to eat again, Rennie realized
she
had been dismissed. Her mouth parted, closed. She was too stunned to respond. Jerking upright, she pushed her chair away from the table and sought the refuge of her own room.

Rennie couldn't concentrate on the book she had chosen to read. Her thoughts invariably swung back to Jarret's comment in the dining room. His tone had almost been threatening, as if he dared her to take exception to what he said. Alone in her room, curled like a young child in the large, comfortable armchair, Rennie felt now that she hadn't accepted the challenge inherent in Jarret's voice, but run away from it.

How was she supposed to know he was the sort of man who could be counted on to keep promises? Based on what facts? He'd never made any commitment to her. The man was a bounty hunter. If that didn't indicate someone with a mile-wide streak of independence and no conscience, she didn't know what did. So what if he was temporarily a federal deputy? He probably hadn't even taken an oath. He wasn't bound by any promises that she could see.