Relatively Risky (5 page)

“I asked you to call me Dimitri,” he reminded her, moving to block her escape.

She had the height to almost look him in the eyes, though she stopped further from him than most women would have. Usually they came right up, tipping their chins up in invitation. No sign of inviting in her old-young eyes. He held out his hand, determined to get some reaction from her. When she reciprocated, he gripped it, lifted it to his lips, his mouth lingering against skin that tasted unexpectedly sweet. His fingers wrapped her wrist again, settled where her pulse should race to betray her—

Before he could find a flutter, her hand was gone once more and she'd moved past him. It felt like rejection, though it couldn't be. Must have been a retreat. She'd not known what to do with a man such as himself. Of course she wouldn't know what to do. He turned and saw Sarah looking at him over Nell's head. Her appreciate gaze soothed—not that his ego was bruised. Not by an ordinary, clueless, annoying female.

He smiled at Sarah. To show chagrin was to expose weakness. He widened it to include Nell as she half turned to offer a prim, “Good-bye.”

“Until we meet again,” he corrected, waiting for the blush—which wholly failed to appear. She did pause, her head tilted, her gaze once again curious and assessing, then, with a quick half smile, she passed from his sight. Her retreat sounded different, not like retreat at all. He'd heard many women walk away from him. None had sounded quite so…indifferent.

F
rom her attic eyrie
, Nell saw Afoniki leave, moving with a long, confident stride toward the street, a broad shouldered man falling into step behind him. Once he'd slid into a limo and pulled away, Nell grabbed her portfolio and clomped downstairs, happy to be back in shorts and boots. Sarah, who had to have heard her coming four flights away, waited at the bottom.

“Well?”

Nell grinned. “Rutabaga.”

Sarah's brows shot up. “But the guy is—”

“There are very handsome rutabagas.” Probably. “You should study them instead of just whacking them to bits with your seriously huge chef knife.”

“I don't have time to study my veggies when I'm cooking. Or when I'm not.” Sarah turned, heading back to the office, her cool summer dress a perfect frame for her tall, slim figure. Nell followed her, fingers itching to sketch, though her muse was torn between capturing her “rutabaga” on the page or going for a classic, semi-vintage of Sarah. That twenties style and Sarah were a match made for a muse. And then there were all the other images tumbling in her brain, not unlike how her body had tumbled this morning. Twice.

Unable to sort through it all, Nell sank on the arm of the chair recently occupied by the rutabaga, wrinkling her nose at the heavy scent still lingering in the still air.

“I don't know what the big emergency was.” Nell tossed the portfolio into the other chair, rather pleased at its perfect landing.

Sarah half shrugged from her spot behind the desk. “He didn't tell me when he called.”

“Maybe he just wanted to see you?” Sarah made a face, prompting to Nell to add, “He is rather gorgeous.”

Sarah leaned back. “And?”

Nell traded chairs with her portfolio, which reduced the scent intensity to bearable, and considered the question. “A bit brooding. A bit…creepy.” Now that she thought about it, more than a bit. If she drew animals—which she didn't—she'd have cast him as a tiger. She didn't say it. He was a client and she could be wrong. She often was. “You looked him up.”

Sarah looked everyone up. She and Google were besties.

She nodded. “Add womanizer and ruthless to creepy.” Sarah frowned. “Hints of something more. The stench of not quite legal hanging around. If we lose the booking, I won't cry.” She straightened. “What was that ‘til we meet again' about?”

Nell chuckled. “No clue.” She frowned. “I have no experience of course, but it did seem a bit plummy, over done. Maybe he thinks chatting me up will help him with you?”

Sarah laughed as she shook her head. “He's not interested enough in me to work that hard. Maybe it's a Russian thing.”

“And my inability to understand it is a Wyoming thing.” And a lack of experience thing. Nell grinned and then stretched. Rubbed her temples. Too many images vied for attention inside her head, the clamor growing almost to the point of giving the muse a headache. And she needed to eat. But the muse was usually harder on her head than her stomach.

Sarah knew the signs. “You'd better go do some dump sketching or you'll be mainlining Tylenol.”

Nell collected her portfolio and headed for the door, remembered she hadn't yet told Sarah about her adventures in crashing, but when she turned back, Sarah was already focused on the computer. She hesitated, but it wasn't like there was anyone to tell on her. She could fess up later. And speaking of up, she needed up and sketching. In that order.

H
elenne St. Cyr
sat in the chair that overlooked her garden and waited, with the calm knowledge that she waited for the last time. She was not impatient. The long years had bled it out of her. If she'd known how long when it started she might have turned aside. The young did many things they should not because they did not know better, because, even as they believed they'd live forever, they did not know how long forever could be. She was supposed to remember her youth now that she was old. She did not remember anything but hating Phineas. And him hating her.

For so many years they'd been locked in a silent war to survive the other. To win. Neither dared to kill the other until—her lips curved in a smile. Today, she sighed, today he lost it all. How he'd hate losing. He'd hate that more than dying. He'd hate knowing he couldn't take her down with him

It must be done by now.

Done.
A small, neat check on the to-do list she'd almost despaired of finishing. Her revenge wasn't just cold, it had almost dried to dust. Almost she'd given up.

Phineas had kept his secrets well, had never trusted her or liked her. Oh, he'd wanted her for a few minutes. He was a man and she'd been beautiful. She hadn't minded when he'd moved on. She'd never wanted him, just his power. Had needed it to strike at the man she had wanted. The man who hadn't wanted her even briefly.

If either of them had wanted anyone but
her.
Eleanor. Ellie. Her other mistake.

How ironic that Ellie had been Phin's mistake, as well. Now, at the end, she could be amused by that.

If he hadn't tried to match her son with Ellie's child…

No, she'd still have wanted him dead. Her hand trembled a bit and she gripped the sides of her chair. Even if her beautiful Phillip had—if, if, if. What was the point of looking back?

What couldn't be changed had been endured.

And she'd made sure Phin hadn't enjoyed the years either. She smiled, wondering what he'd thought today when the blow had fell. Had he known it came from her? His stupid, sentimental decision to take the sun in the French Quarter had made him vulnerable just when she needed it. How exquisitely ironic was that?

She shifted her arm, just enough to see the time on the very expensive watch Phin had bought her for her last birthday. She'd hoped to feel it, to sense the moment his life ended, but she felt nothing, not even relieved. Perhaps she no longer could feel. She did not mind. Feeling was over-rated.

She lifted her chin, as if sensing an arrant breeze. Almost she laughed. It seemed she could feel one thing. The tremor as Phin's death swept out to take down Aleksi and Bett. She felt again the flash of anger that she'd almost missed it, too. But she hadn't. The weapon was in
her
hand, not theirs.

Speaking of which, he should be here soon—ah, yes, here he came.

He moved through the garden with surprising grace for a man who had none, for one so different from her beautiful, dead son. He was not really a man at all. He was a hammer and he did not know it.

He didn't knock, just slipped in a gap in the door, then shut it behind him with a care unusual in a hammer.

She didn't look at him. One didn't look at tools unless one had to. “It's done.”

“It's done.” He was terse. “Loose ends tied.”

She liked him terse. Was pleased he knew it. She looked then, bestowing approval. It would be his only reward. A pity, but he'd become a weak link, a loose end.

“You saw it.”

He nodded, something flickering over his usually blank face.

“What?”

“There was a contact—” He frowned. “I took a picture with my cell.” He extracted it, tapped the screen a couple of times, then handed it to her.

She stared down at the tiny screen, adjusting it until the blur cleared. The tableau was small, but the body language was interesting. She knew every nuance of Phin's. She'd had so many years to study him. She messed with it until his companion came into view—her whole body went stiff. How had he found out? She'd been so sure he hadn't—clever bastard. He'd given no sign. None.

“How…interesting.” She directed a look at him. “I think, yes, I very much think I need you to do one more thing for me today, dear boy.”

“Of course.” His face was impassive, but his eyes gave him away.

She smiled at him, the mothering one that made him stupid. Tools sometimes needed that extra care to do their best. “I do not, I really do not know what I'd do without you.”

A
lex woke with a jerk
, the sun stabbing through the gaps in the blinds into his eyes. He muttered a curse. Looked at the crooked wall clock. Four hours of sleep wasn't going to do it. He closed his eyes but it was too late. Tired but not sleepy. How did that work? He sat up. Rubbed his eyes. The silence of the house didn't soothe. Why should it? He'd been raised in chaos, probably forever ruined by it. A quick shower took the edge off tired. He already had a bunch of texts from the sibs about his early morning adventure, which for some reason made him think about Eleanor Whitby.

He should have mulled the crazy parts, but found himself stuck remembering her eyes. Wondering what it was about them that he couldn't forget. Not that he was interested in her or anything. Curious. Yeah, that's what he was. Curious was logical. Curious was not even first cousins with interested.

He left his room, did a quick scan for life signs. His dad was still out. That felt normal. He opened the fridge. Shut it again. Not pretty. He should go eat. Maybe if he saw her, he could figure out why she bothered him, put it—and her—to rest for good. He did need to get her statement. Okay, someone did. Technically he was the victim, not the arresting officer, even though he'd made the collar. Still debating with himself, he went outside, unlocked his truck—most useless act of the day so far—brushed the glass off the seat, and got in. Made a mental note to do something about the window before his radio disappeared. He drove the few blocks to her address, arguing the pros and cons of seeing her again. She had perp-fans and wrote what looked like kids' books. The fact he was thinking of her as anything but a witness almost made him drive past—but there was a great parking place in front, right on St. Charles. That never happened. He had to take it, if only to be able to tell the story later. And he could save some poor slob in a uniform from having to get her statement. Yeah, that was it. He was doing a favor for a fellow officer.

He approached the double wood doors of the rather imposing house. Next to the doors was a small plaque that announced to the curious that Blue Bayou Catering could be found inside. He checked the address. It matched, so he knocked. Heard a distant, “Come on in,” so he pushed open the door and stepped into a hallway that belonged to a distant, more gracious past. Cool enclosed him. Peace, too. Kids may have played here in bygone days, but unlike the Baker house, they hadn't left their mark. The wood floor was smoothly pristine. It swept the length of the house, crying out for the swish of long dresses. From its heart, a stairway curved up, the banister inviting him to take a slide—even if he was in advanced years and wouldn't survive impact with the wood floor.

“Give it a go,” a cool, amused voice said from his right.

Alex looked and found the owner of the voice, leaning against a door jamb. She was everything he most liked in a woman. Tall, cool and blonde—with just a hint of red in her hair. He couldn't picture her riding a bike, let alone running into a carjacker with one. Her eyes swept him, sparked with interest. He waited for his libido to kick on, but it just sat there. “Excuse me?”

“The banister. Everyone wants to slide down it.”

Okay, her apparent ability to read his mind went into the minus column, but when she started toward him, one hip at a time, her body all fluid and sexy, he added a few more ticks to the plus column and told his libido to get cracking. It was really letting him down. Out of habit, he produced his badge and showed it to her.

“Miss Whitby here?”

Her perfect brows arched perfectly. “Nell?”

Nell suited her. Sounded more friendly. “If she rides a bike and has a muse.”

Her lips twitched slightly. “That's Nell.” Now her brows pulled together in a frown. “Why would you be looking for Nell? She is the most law abiding person I know.”

He could see she was going to get all protective, when it ought to be obvious that it was the world that needed protection from Nell.

“I just need her statement. About the car jacking.”

That popped her brows up again. Interesting that Nell hadn't mentioned it.

“Nell doesn't have a car.”

Alex sighed. “She witnessed a car jacking but left before I could get her statement. The muse is, apparently, her boss.”

She laughed and smoothed down her hackles. “That sounds like Nell. I'm Sarah Burland. Nell's other boss. And friend.”

At least she hadn't tossed lawyer in there. She shook hands with him. Her hand was cool and slim as it settled inside his. He enjoyed the contact but his libido remained stubbornly unaffected. It had never let him down before. Was there a place to get it checked? He met her rueful gaze and half shrugged. Felt like he should apologize.

She grinned, but it turned into a frown. “She didn't mention anything about it.”

Because it was crazy? It wasn't his job to fill her in, so he asked, “Is she here?”

“In the garden. Second door on the right, then out the terrace doors. She's probably up a tree.”

Alex had started to move, but stopped at this. “Up a…tree?”

“She likes being up.” Sarah paused her own retreat to add, “Check the oak in the middle. It's her favorite.”

“Thanks. I think.” The second door opened on a living room, a tidy and welcoming room with terrace doors that opened onto a small, not so tidy garden.

Several old oak trees cast their shade on the enclosed space, but there was a particularly fine specimen in the center, its branches reaching close to the ground, as if in invitation. It reminded him of the tree in
Swiss Family Robinson
, only without the tree house. In a particularly complex juncture between several branches, he picked out what looked like a reclining figure. She'd picked a spot a serious distance from Mother Earth.

He walked to the base. From this vantage point, all he could see was her butt, surrounded by branches and leaves and one foot dangling over the edge. So he hadn't imagined it. She did have a nice caboose. His libido gave itself a shake. Glad it was still around, but now was not the time. Nell was not his type. Not the time to recall that his ex had been his type…

“Miss Whitby?”

There was a pause, then the foot was pulled in and the body—and the caboose—turned until he could see her face peering down at him through the branches. She didn't say anything, something he found a bit unnerving. Might have arched her brows. Hard to tell with the shade playing games with her face.

“I realized you live pretty close and thought it would simplify things if I stopped by and got your statement. From this morning.”

“Oh, right. This morning. Sure. Come on up.”

He wanted to but felt like he shouldn't. Tree climbing was for children, not homicide detectives. He studied the arrangement of branches and trunk. It was a great tree.

“It's lovely and cool.” Her face disappeared and her caboose reappeared in the juncture. “Unless you're afraid….”

Her voice had just enough imp in it to provoke—if the taunt wasn't enough. He started up, half expected gravity to be bitchy about it, but it must be snoozing in the afternoon sun, too. In short order he'd clambered up beside her. Close, but not too close, was another branch arrangement where he could settle quite comfortably. She was right. It was nice up here. Relaxing. Like he'd left his worries and frustrations back on the ground. And his hang ups. Air moved softly through the leaves, their rustle just enough to mute distant car sounds and cool the sweat from his climb.

He turned and studied her, curious to compare memory with reality. She'd changed into a pair of shorts that showed off a rather well constructed pair of legs, though she still wore the cowboy boots so he didn't get the full view. She'd tucked her portfolio into a branch close by her, had a closed pad resting on her lap. One knee was scrubbed, probably from this morning. Her hair puffed out around her head, the ends curling in a variety of directions.

She fingered the end of a strand. “It increases exponentially, in proportion to the humidity level.”

He chuckled and was rewarded with a smile that put crinkles around her eyes. He shifted uneasily. “They smile.”

“Excuse me?” She blinked, though slowly, her lashes drifting down and then up as if that was all she had energy to do.

“Your eyes. They smile.”

“Do they?” She touched the edge of one, as if feeling for the smile.

“Inside them.” He knew he was being…something. Should shut up.

“Oh.” Her lips curved up to match her eyes. A slight breeze made the shadows on her face shift, revealing, then shading her mouth.

“How was the muse?” he surprised himself by asking.

She made a face, punctuated it with a lazy shrug.

His libido kicked it up a notch. Odd to feel that slow slide now. He dealt with the aftermath of human impulse at work all the time. Saw a butt load of human impulse—and some he considered not-human—helping to raise his siblings. He should understand it. Didn't. He didn't know why he'd come. Wasn't sorry. Found himself remembering the moment when he'd almost kissed her and hadn't. Maybe he should give into impulse every now and again. Sure couldn't make a move now when they were up a tree. Was kind of sorry about that.

She shifted position, uncrossing her booted feet. She leaned forward, stowing her pad in the portfolio and securing it.

“You're not from here, are you?” The question came out conversational, rather than cop-like.

“Wyoming.” She turned her head, just enough for her sleepy gaze to meet his. “Not Star Valley.”

He grinned. “How did you know—”

“Almost everyone's ‘I know someone from Wyoming,' is someone from Star Valley.” An amused frown pulled her brows together. “Not sure why. It's not huge.”

“Not many towns in Wyoming are,” Alex pointed out, which was almost all he knew about the state. And that most of Yellowstone was in Wyoming. Okay, he just thought he knew that.

Her tiny nod conceded the point. It was followed by another lazy smile that made his insides relax some. He liked that she didn't fidget or chatter. Looked at him straight, her gaze clear and honest. And smiling. There really was something about her eyes—

“So you're from not-Star Valley.”

Her chuckle was engaging.

“Waipiti. I'm from Waipiti.”

“Wa—what?”

“It's a little place between Cody and Yellowstone. A really little place.”

“How did you get from there to here?” Her perch suited her, New Orleans did, too, but at the same time…he tried to picture a little town in Wyoming behind her, but he'd never been to Wyoming. Were Wyoming small towns like Louisiana small towns? Her eyes shadowed some and she looked away.

“Sarah was my college roommate.”

“College?” Alex probed. He'd have pegged Sarah as a local, in habitation and with her college selection. But what had brought Nell to Louisiana—

Nell grinned. “University of Wyoming.”

His brows shot up. “Seriously?” He did not see that one coming.

“She won't admit it, but I think she did it to piss off her parents. When my parents—she's the one who hooked me up with my publisher. He's local, too. When she inherited the house, she decided to try her hand at catering and she invited me to come work for her.”

Didn't have to be a cop to note the quick subject change or to fill in the blanks. Didn't need to be a metro-sexual either. “How long ago did your parents pass?”

Her lashes shot up, her gaze on his for a long moment before she said, “A little over two years.”

“No siblings?” She shook her head. Did he envy her? Probably not, though ask him tomorrow. Answer changed with the day.

“No family.” Her smile was overly bright and not that happy. “I'm relying on the kindness of strangers these days, though,” her tone softened, “Sarah's not a stranger.”

“You must have left a lot of friends back in Wa—Wyoming?”

“Of course, but—” she shrugged again. Her lashes drifted to half mast, her mouth drooped.

“A clean break was probably a good idea.” It had worked for his ex. She and the new hubby were in Saudi Arabia or maybe it was Dubai. He didn't keep track, but one of his sister's had mentioned seeing something about it in her Facebook status a few weeks ago. Sometimes it bothered him how little he missed her. Mostly he was relieved. Nothing more depressing than a guy who couldn't get over the ex. It annoyed his sisters that he forgot he had an ex. Maybe it was having so many siblings. Didn't have room in his brain to remember an ex. “How long you been here?”

Her face relaxed at the change of subject. “A couple of years.”

“That kid, the failed carjacker? He wants your autograph. Didn't realize I'd been rescued by a celebrity.”

That made her chuckle a bit ruefully. “Only with tweens, I'm afraid. It's the strangest thing, but Alphonse has been deemed totally sick, only locally of course. Kids that age won't even eat vegetables, but apparently they like wearing him.” She grinned at him, then shook her head. “I'm still a bit shell shocked thinking about trying to ram him. I do not know what came over me. I'm not usually reckless.” He trotted out a skeptical look and she grinned. “Truly. I'm a librarian. Until today, the boldest thing I've done was move here. My first and last rescue attempt. My bike was not happy to be turned into a weapon. Or attempted weapon?”

His turn to laugh. “You see a nail, everything is a hammer.”

“My dad would tell me to not make eye contact with the nails if I'm feeling hammer-ish.”

This time no shadows, Alex noted. When was the last time he'd been this relaxed? It was spring, so the air wasn't too humid, though the sun was high enough he'd bet it was eighty on the ground. The leaves probably reduced the temp some. He gave his gaze permission to linger on Nell, trying to figure out why it felt longer that he'd known her. That they weren't strangers. Didn't usually think this much around a woman, he thought, with a wry inside grin. Added to the odd, no doubt. His brothers—felt a flinch and realized he didn't want his brothers to meet her until—what? He wasn't here for personal reasons. He was up this tree for police business. Okay, even he knew that was weird. Maybe a big, fat lie. He looked around, mostly to look away. “This is nice.”