Saving Scott (Kobo) (19 page)

“Ah, yes.
Sleazy sorts. Know them well. Any details we can actually use? Descriptions?”

“All bits
and pieces. Mix-and-match. She thinks she saw three different guys. Or two. Or
four.” Kovak looked at his notes. “Any or all of whom might have the following.
Shaved head. Long, greasy hair. Fair skin. Dark skin. Piercings. Tats, although
she can’t remember what they were. A dragon, maybe, running down someone’s arm.
Or some kind of bug. Maybe a spiderweb on his neck. Sleazy, mean biker dudes
was as close as she got.”

Scott raised
his eyebrows. “Hell, my cousin has her eyebrow and her navel pierced. And her
tongue. She’s got a dragon tramp stamp, and a rose on her neck. Hardly a
sleaze. Nicest, most loving kid you’d ever want to know.”

Scott might
not have been privy to the actual questioning, but Kovak’s instincts had seemed
spot on so far. “What about where she saw them? This is a small town, after
all.”

“Not a lot
of biker hangouts in Pine Hills. And because we’re a small town, people not
wanting to be seen normally go elsewhere. Woodford, Cottonwood. Even Salem isn’t
too far to go on a date.”

“Did you
push? If Belinda claims she saw the victim with these ‘sleazy sorts’”—Scott
mimicked Kovak’s air quotes—”then she had to have seen them out
somewhere.
”

“Maybe at a
concert, maybe at a ball game. Maybe at a bar, but she can’t remember which
one.” Kovak circled Belinda’s name and drew a big question mark above it.

“Yeah, I’d
keep her on the short list,” Scott said. “What about the contractor?”

Kovak
grabbed a large stack of paper from the table beside the white board. “Phone
records confirm he’s been in Oklahoma City.”

“Did he
leave before or after the time of death window?”

Kovak
frowned. “He was on an early morning flight the day the body was discovered. I
suppose he could have given her the doctored cocoa and left, but the
father-in-law’s heart attack was real, and the plane tickets were bought
last-minute. Doesn’t play out for me. I’ve talked to some of his subs. They
confirm he wasn’t the sort to cheat on his wife.”

Brody
interrupted with three large pizza boxes.

“Set them
down over there.” Kovak pointed to a table at the far end of the room. “And let
everyone know that dinner’s available in return for a little eyestrain.” He
flopped the paper down next to the pizzas. “We’ve got phone records to cross
reference, and of course, my all time favorite, financials.”

After Brody
left in search of volunteers, Scott grabbed a slice of pizza. Before any
volunteer labor arrived, he confronted Kovak.

“I want to
see the pictures you took at Ashley’s place. Not only the ones from today, but
the original crime scene photos as well.”

Footfalls,
loud and heavy, thudded toward the room. A voice, loud and decidedly male,
followed. “Holy crap, Kovak. I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I? What
the hell’s going on?” Scott swiveled around to see a very tall, hawk-nosed man,
half-smiling, half-scowling, stride into the room. Clearly someone on the job.

Kovak
turned. A grin spread across his face, wiping out the fatigue. “Hey, big guy.
Welcome home.”

***

Ashley
packaged the last batch of cookies and studied the array of desserts she’d prepared
for tomorrow’s party. Had she forgotten anything? And would it be a big deal if
she left one behind? She’d already fixed far more than she’d planned. And spent
far more than the money they’d given her, but she didn’t care. In her business,
word of mouth—operative word being
mouth
—was key, and she was confident
she’d recoup her additional investment when people fell in love with her
creations and came to the bakery to buy them.

She shook
off the doubts that crept in every time she thought of the reality of opening a
business. There were no guarantees. Belinda was still struggling, and Sarah had
told her how she’d almost had to shut down. But that had been sabotage, Maggie
had said. Nobody was going to sabotage her bakery. But, what if they already had?
Doubt nagged at her.

She
shuddered at the thought that someone might have been trying just that. Could
someone have planted a dead body in her bakery to ruin any chance of success?
At least Detective Kovak hadn’t treated her like she’d killed Felicity for the
publicity. He’d been gentle and professional in his questions, and Scott had
been there, nodding encouragement as she answered them. Scott would have come
to her defense if Kovak had treated her like a criminal. Wouldn’t he?

Speaking of
Scott. She got out two champagne flutes and a plate for the chocolate-dipped
strawberries she’d made for their celebration. Her heart fluttered. She checked
the time. She had another hour before he was due. And for once, she was totally
baked out.

She needed
to work up some kind of acknowledgement page—something she could hand out at
the bakeoff thanking the donors for their generosity. Dare she ask Elaine for
yet another last-minute print job? Or should she run them off herself?

Either way,
she’d have to create the original. She’d been lax about documenting her
donations, so step one was transcribing her scribbled notes into a spreadsheet
of each prize and its donor. After saving that, she worked on designing the
page itself. She found images of brownies and figured out how to turn them into
a border. From there, it was simply a matter of listing the donations.

How to order
them? Value. No, that was gauche. Alphabetically by donor, she decided. By the
time she finished, it was eight-fifteen. Had Scott forgotten? Blown her off? Or
was he someone who didn’t pay attention to time?

Or had
something else happened with the case? Another body? Another suspect? Or had he
been in an accident?

You’re
letting your imagination run wild.

There was
probably a logical explanation. She went about watering her plants, keeping an
ear cocked for any sounds from Scott’s apartment.

“What do you
think, Lily?” she asked. “He’s nice. Not bad-looking, either. Okay, he’s really
good looking. And a damn good kisser. Should I be mad that he’s late and hasn’t
called?”

As usual,
Lily said nothing.

By eight
forty-five, Ashley considered calling it a night. Her body was protesting the
long, exhausting day. But her brain was in overdrive, and she doubted she’d
sleep, no matter how tired her body was.

She jumped
at the knock at her door. “You think that’s him, Violet?” She set the watering
can down.

Even though
part of her said to take a few seconds to check her hair, her makeup—maybe
brush her teeth?—she rushed across the living room. Scott may have kept her
waiting, but to retaliate would be petty.

But was it
Scott? Her last surprise visitor had been a cop bearing bad news. She checked
the peephole.

Not a cop.
An ex-cop. Irritation vanished. She felt the grin spreading across her face as
she opened the door. So much for letting him see she wasn’t pleased with his
lack of consideration.

“Sorry I’m
late,” were the first words out of his mouth. “I tried to call, but kept
getting your voicemail.”

She rushed
to her desk, where her long-silent cell phone rested beside her computer. Her
totally-turned-off cell phone. Which she’d done at Kovak’s request at the
police station and then had forgotten. Keeping her head down to conceal the
heat rising to her face, she pressed the on button.

“Forgot to
turn it on after Kovak’s grilling.” She gave him a sheepish grin and waved the
phone. Once it booted, she checked the missed calls. Four voice messages and
two texts, all from Scott. All that wasted frustration.

“I brought
some pizza,” Scott said. “I know it doesn’t go with champagne, but I didn’t
feel right arriving empty-handed.”

Right. His
gentlemanly upbringing. She took the pizza box from him and set it on the table
beside the door. She spread her arms. “I can think of something to fill your
hands.”

He flashed a
lopsided grin, then stepped forward in an embrace. His hands ran up and down
her back. Squeezed her shoulders. Cradled the back of her head. Paused, as if
he needed permission to go further.

She leaned
in, offering her lips.

He wasted no
time accepting. His tongue swept through her mouth. He tasted like tomato sauce
and pepperoni. Who needed pizza?

Her heart
pounded. Her knees wobbled. Tremors shot to her belly. The room ran out of
oxygen. Gasping, she pulled away. Slowly. Reluctantly.

“I … um … guess
I should get the champagne.”

“That was
the plan, wasn’t it?” He took both her hands and lifted them to his lips. “Although
plans have been known to change.”

Ashley
leaned against his chest, absorbing his warmth. His heart rate seemed as
accelerated as hers.

What are
you doing? You don’t have time for this. And a fling with a next-door-neighbor
is stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She sighed. “I
think we should stick to the original.” And then, as if she hadn’t heard the
voices screaming in her head, she added, “For now.”

She poured
two flutes of champagne, set them on a tray with the strawberries, and brought
them to the coffee table. Scott handed her one of the crystal flutes and took
the other.

“To the
ever-growing success of Confections by Ashley.” He lifted his glass.

The crystal
chimed as she tapped her glass to his. The bubbles tickled her nose when she
took her first sip. Confections by Ashley. Thoughts of her bakery enveloped her
like her grandmother’s afghan on a cold winter night. Soon, very soon, she’d be
open for business. And she’d succeed. Failure was not an option.

Scott
offered her a strawberry. Although she’d sampled her fill while she made them,
taking it from his fingers would be an entirely different experience. But he
didn’t let her take it. Instead, he pushed her hand away and moved the
chocolate-clad fruit toward her mouth. Teasing. Tempting.

She snagged
the tip with her teeth, biting gently. Her tongue swirled around the chocolate
coating, savoring the creamy bittersweet. Letting it dissolve in her mouth.
Taking a little more. Nibbling. Licking. Finally, she worked her way up to the
spot where the strawberry ended and his fingers began. She didn’t stop. The
chocolate and strawberry juices clinging to his fingers didn’t stand a chance
under the demands of her tongue.

Her gaze met
Scott’s. His hazel eyes glistened, almost bright-green. His breathing turned
ragged. He handed her a strawberry. “My turn,” he whispered.

Scott’s
tongue worked on the fruit with a passion that filled her with an overwhelming
desire to have his tongue somewhere else. He made short work of the strawberry,
then moved his tongue to her fingers, copying her moves. Suckled. Tugged. Her
nipples strained against the lace of her bra. Juices—not from the
strawberry—pooled between her legs.

Okay, now
she wanted his tongue, his mouth,
everywhere
else.

No flings
with neighbors. No flings with neighbors.

Too fast. On
a deep inhale, she splayed the fingers of her free hand against his chest,
exerting the tiniest bit of pressure.

He released
her trapped fingers. Studied her face. Waited.

With
tremendous effort, she gasped, “Too fast.”

Immediately,
he scooted across the couch. “I…you’re right. I’m—”

She gripped
his hands. “If you’re going to say you’re sorry, don’t. I … I need a clear
head.”

He pressed
his lips to her forehead, then gave her an even stare. “You’re in charge.
Always. Remember that.”

He stood and
stepped away, wandering around the room. Grateful for the distance, she tried
to wrap her head around what had just happened. What she’d caused to happen.

He gestured
toward all her containers of baked goods. “Are those all for tomorrow’s party?”

She nodded. “What
time should I bring them over?”

As if he
hadn’t heard her, he moved to the display of donations, picking up the basket
Belinda had given her. Carrying it to her, he asked, “Where did you get this?”

The Scott
she’d been kissing had disappeared. Scott the cop was back.

***

Scott
stopped himself from ripping the plastic encasing the fancy gift basket. He
held it up, twisting it, to get a clearer view through the pink covering.

“What are
you talking about?” Ashley crossed the room, clearly confused. “Belinda gave it
to me. It’s a door prize for the bakeoff. Is there a problem?”

“Hang on a
sec.” Scott went back to his apartment, where he’d dropped off the files he’d
asked to look at. With Randy Detweiler back early, Scott had begged off what
looked like an all-nighter. The two detectives knew each other’s thinking
patterns, and Scott didn’t mind being demoted to consultant instead of active
participant. Knowing Ashley was waiting with chilled champagne hadn’t
influenced his decision. Much.

He grabbed
the folder. Ashley stood in the hallway, watching. He dismissed momentary
second thoughts about showing her the photos. It was her property, and since
Kovak had released the bakery, she had every right to see them. Hell, she could
drive over and see everything for herself if she wanted to.

Come to
think of it, she hadn’t asked him about it. Maybe she
had
gone back.
Then again, they hadn’t actually wasted any time in small talk. He could still
taste champagne, chocolate, and strawberries—and the way they tasted mixed with
Ashley.

He shook it
off. If this was a lead, he had to follow up. And if it definitively cleared
Ashley—

Don’t go
there. Yet.

Ashley still
waited in the hallway, her eyebrows raised in question. Scott held up the
folder and motioned her back into her apartment. Instead of the tray of
champagne and strawberries, the coffee table now held the basket.