Kira, a middle-aged blonde he’d suspected was only a few years younger than himself, approached. Her pink uniform clung to curves he’d fantasized about way too much over the past two months. “Coffee?”
He nodded. “Decaf, please.”
“How’d it go tonight?” she asked as she filled his mug.
When Kira had learned he’d been stopping by the diner after attending his weekly Alcoholic Anonymous meetings, she’d proudly confessed that she too was a recovering alcoholic and had been sober for more than ten years. A bond had grown between them, and while he suspected she might be romantically interested in him, he wasn’t ready to date. Hell, as it was, he couldn’t even work up the nerve to visit her any other time but after a meeting. Before he could even consider a relationship, something he hadn’t had since his wife divorced him six years ago, he needed to work through AA’s Twelve Steps first. He’d made it through the first seven, and was now on step eight.
“The meeting went well,” he said, and poured creamer into his mug. They talked for a while, not about the meeting, but about life in general.
He loved this time with Kira. Before he’d sobered up, he wouldn’t have given her a second glance. His drunken ego had lured him to twenty-something women, who, he’d realized once sober, had only been interested in him for his doctor status and money.
What a fool he’d been. Thanks to his lack of self-control, he’d allowed booze to ruin his life. He’d lost his wife, his kids, and nearly lost his license to practice medicine.
As Kira spoke, he stared into her smiling hazel eyes and realized how much he needed to stay on the wagon. Failing in front of Kira was not an option. He had too much respect for her. Hell, he was in love with her.
The door swung open and a group of laughing couples stumbled to an oversized corner booth. Kira sighed as she eyed the new customers. “Looks like the bar crowd has the munchies. I gotta run. Give me a wave if you need a refill.”
He kept his gaze on her full bottom as she walked away. Urgency ran through the new and improved sober Dr. Alexander Elliott Trumane. He wanted his life back, and he wanted Kira in it.
Drawing a pen from his pocket, he flipped over the paper place mat and stared at the white canvas that would eventually lead him to atonement. He’d hurt many people over the years, and it was time to make amends.
As he began to write, he wondered if he should have skipped the decaf and gone for the high octane stuff. Listing every person he’d harmed during his years as a drunk could take all night.
Chapter 8
Celeste tightened her grip on the doorknob to keep herself from falling into John’s arms. She knew they were strong, heavily muscled. He’d held her in his car when she’d woken from her trance, and again at Carl Saunders’ office after that awful reading. Right now, she needed to feel his protective strength again. Since leaving the ME’s, the ruthless visage of a killer loomed in her every thought. If she closed her eyes now, his bearded face would be there, fist cocked, ready to release another painful blow.
An involuntary shiver ran through her body.
“Cold?” John stepped into the front foyer.
“A little.” She closed the door. “The days have been so unseasonably warm, but the nights are getting chilly.”
He stared at her, his concerned gaze dark and penetrating. Worried he’d see past her fight to control her emotions, her fears, she looked away.
She couldn’t let him know how badly she ached, how badly the case was affecting her. As much as she wanted no part in the investigation, she had to pretend everything was a-okay. Otherwise, Roy would pull her off the case, and she couldn’t have that happen. She needed closure. She needed to do her part to help find justice for those women. If she didn’t, she worried the nightmares would remain seared on her soul forever.
“Come on in,” she said, and moved toward the living room. “Roy mentioned you’re from Chicago. I bet you’re seeing the same kind of weather there, too, huh?”
He snagged her hand, and drew her to him, gently bracing his other hand at the small of her back. She stared at his chest, only inches from her face, her heart pounding at the nearness, her body tingling from his touch. She desperately wanted him to hold her, soothe her, erase the nightmares, and the memory of Ruby Styles’s murder from her mind. But she couldn’t, just as she couldn’t bring herself to look up at him. She couldn’t let him see—
Cupping her face, he tilted her head. “Look at me,” he demanded in a hushed, coaxing tone.
When she did, tears instantly blurred her vision. The concern, the tenderness, and the heat in his gaze made her want to bury her face in his chest. She wanted to cry so bad. Curl against him and vent. Tell him her fears, her anxiety, how her emotions were raw, ravaged, and tearing her apart.
He caught a tear with his thumb, then traced it along her cheekbone. “I don’t want to talk about the weather. I want to talk about what happened today at the ME’s. I’d ask if you’re okay, but I think I’ve already gotten my answer.”
As he continued to stroke his thumb along her cheek, the tears threatening to fall subsided. His simple, gentle caresses calmed her,
soothed
her, and helped her regain control of her emotions.
Feeding off of his strength, she forced a smile. “I’m fine, just tired. It’s been a long day.”
“Celeste, you don’t have to put up a false front for me.”
She pulled back, regretting the loss of his touch, the strength he offered. “I’m not. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Whatever you’re having,” he said with a deep sigh.
“Chardonnay it is then.”
He followed her into the kitchen. “Look, I really think we need to talk—”
“Did you have any trouble finding my house?” she interrupted. Needing more time to compose herself, she pulled the bottle of wine from the fridge.
He took the bottle. “Here, let me. Wine opener?”
She reached into the drawer, then handed him the corkscrew. As he worked on the cork, she stayed close to him, wishing they were back in the foyer. She wanted him holding her again, needed the comfort his caresses offered, the security, the protectiveness. She wanted to lose herself in his body, forget how lonely her nights had been before the nightmares had begun, and how miserable and frightened she’d become since they’d started.
It had been so long since she’d been with a man, kissed, made love. She’d missed the intimacy, and as she stood next to him, inhaling his purely male scent, she wished she could throw caution to the wind and be spontaneous. She’d caught the way he’d looked at her.
Admiration and heat had lit his dark eyes several times throughout the day. How would he react if she made a move on him? Offered a no-strings affair?
Duh. He’s a man. Of course he’d jump at the offer.
And she’d regret her impulsiveness. As much as she wanted him to hold her, she knew herself too well. She didn’t have sex for sex’s sake. Considering he’d leave once his part in the investigation was over, she knew sex was all he’d be able to offer her. Right now, she didn’t need another person leaving her life.
When her mom had died, their family had unraveled. Her dad moved to Florida and seemed to enjoy golf more than talking to her. Her sister rarely called or visited now that she was busy with her career in Chicago. Even Will wanted to leave. When he did, she’d be stuck here, alone. Running a diner she didn’t want, and leading a boring, dismal existence.
No, she couldn’t afford to become attached to John or the idea of a relationship with him. He’d leave, like everyone else.
The cork popped. “Freed at last,” he said. “Glasses?”
She grabbed two and placed them on the counter, then watched as he poured the chardonnay. His hands seemed huge next to the delicate wine glasses. He had nice hands, big, strong and lean.
“Thank you.” She took the glass from him.
As he brought the glass to his lips, very nice lips, he stopped and cocked a brow. “Mind explaining the little man staring at me?” He nodded to the gnome perched on her kitchen windowsill wearing an apron and chef’s hat.
Grateful for something to distract her from his hands and lips before she started studying his other body parts, she reached for the gnome. “Don’t you like my little buddy?”
He looked around the kitchen and into the dining room. “Don’t you mean
buddies?
You’ve got these guys everywhere.”
After replacing the gnome, she reached for her wine. “I’d like to tell you that I keep these guys around because I believe the mythical little creatures provide luck.”
“But?”
She shrugged. “I bought one for my garden when I moved in. It was cheap, and I don’t know, it was so ugly it was kinda cute. So I put it in the front flowerbed. That afternoon, the old woman who lives next door, Linda Turner, came banging on my front door. She told me she hated my gnome, how ugly it was, and that it gave her the creeps.” After taking a sip of her wine, she smiled. “She also told me what flowers I should grow, how to arrange them, that my music was too loud, which it wasn’t by the way...she just kept nitpicking at me. So I went out and bought a couple more just to terrorize her.”
“You’re vicious,” he chuckled.
“Aren’t I though? I mean, I had to get back at her in some way without being nasty. Anyway, the next thing I knew, everybody started buying me gnomes. You know, for Christmas, birthdays...I guess they thought I collected them.” She eyed the chef gnome again. “Now I do.”
“How many are around here?” he asked as he topped her wine off, then his.
“Outside? I think I’m up to around twenty. Inside? Maybe three dozen or so.”
He kicked up his brows. “Wow, that’s a lot of gnomes.”
She rolled her eyes, and tried to hide her embarrassment. First the psychic thing and now the bazillion gnomes. He had to think she was an over the top eccentric. “I know. I have no idea where to put them anymore. Maybe I should call Matt Boysen and ask him to put an ad in his paper announcing I’ve reached my full capacity.”
Running a finger along the gnome cookie jar, he frowned. “Boysen’s a piece of work. Remember what I said about him and other reporters once the murders are leaked.”
Damn, just when she was relaxing, he had to bring up the investigation and remind her exactly why he’d stopped by tonight. He might have showed concern, but this wasn’t a social call, this was business. “And I told you that I could handle it.”
“Really?” He faced her. “Have you ever had a reporter follow you around? Shove a microphone in your face? Harass you when you’re at the grocery store, or at work, or in the privacy of your home?”
“You know I haven’t, but apparently
you
have.”
“Apparently. Let’s talk in the living room,” he said with a tight smile, then grabbed the bottle of wine.
And apparently that was the end of that, she thought as she trailed behind him. It didn’t take a psychic to know when someone was hiding something, and John, she suspected, had a few skeletons in his closet. She hadn’t missed the way he’d tensed, or how his eyes had narrowed before he’d masked his emotions with a forced grin. He’d said he worked for a private investigation firm. Now she wondered what line of work he’d been in before joining CORE. Carl Saunders had made an off-handed comment about him smelling like FBI. If that were true, why had he left?
Curious, and nosey as hell, she was prepared to ask him more about his job, rather past job, when he suddenly stopped. He stared at the large painting she’d hung on the wall opposite her brick fireplace, his gaze riveted on the beautiful collage of colors.
“This is good. Where did you get it?”
“My brother.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where he got it from. I’ve been looking for something like this.” He glanced back at her, and she swore he blushed. “For my mom. Christmas isn’t that far away and with my schedule I shop early and whenever I can.”
For his mom? Good lord, the man did have a sweet side. “Actually my brother
is
the artist.”
“Really?
Your
brother painted this?”
“Mmm-hmm. He sculpts too, although I’m partial to his paintings. You can see more of his work all around town. They’re in a lot of the local shops, the county library. Even Roy has a few in his office.”
“Yeah, I saw those. Maybe I could look at any extras he might have.”
“Trust me. He’d be happy to sell a painting to you. He’s trying to get his name out there. Actually, he has a showing at some new gallery in Chicago at the end of October.”
“I’ll have to check it out.”
Right. Because that’s where he lives, and that’s where he’ll be heading when the investigation is finished. “I’m keeping my fingers crossed for him. He’s desperate to leave Wissota Falls, but until he can earn enough money from selling his paintings, he’s kinda stuck here.”
He moved toward the bookshelf lined with pictures and memories. “What about you? Does small town life agree with you?”
Standing next to him she let her gaze drift over the framed snapshots. “So-so.”
He cocked a brow.
“I mean, yeah, it’s okay. Like with any place, though, it’s not always peaches and cream. Know what I mean?”
After studying her for a few seconds, a smile tilted his lips. “I do. While I love Chicago, I used to think small town simplicity seemed more appealing.”
“Now?” she prompted, curious and eager to learn his take on where she lived. Did he think they were all bumpkins? Most visitors did. Wissota Falls sponsored many annual festivals. Tourists would come from big cities, and then act as if they’d time traveled in their Mercedes or BMW’s into another century. She didn’t resent the tourists, they were good for the town and for The Sugar Shack. She resented that she couldn’t leave with them.
Wissota Falls had become stifling. She’d wanted out the moment her mom died, but she hadn’t been able to leave. Her dad’s grief had weighed on her. She was a fixer, and he’d needed fixing. Only she hadn’t anticipated the fix she now found herself in three years later.
Living a life she didn’t want.
“Well,” he began. “Let’s just say I think I like the anonymity I have in Chicago.”
No shit, hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she refrained with a false smile. She understood more than he could ever comprehend. “Well, it’s not for everyone.” She shrugged, and sipped her wine.
After setting his glass on the bookshelf he picked up one of the photos. Her favorite. It had been taken the year before her mom had been diagnosed with cancer, when she’d been healthy, beautiful.
“Your family?” he asked, as he caressed the frame with his thumb.
“Yep, and that’s my mom and dad. My brother Will and my sister Eden.”
“She’s pretty.”
Was he blind?
Eden was gorgeous, exotic, and the total opposite of her. Black hair, green eyes and olive skin, then there was her body. Eden was one of those women who had a natural, runway model physique. She was tall and slender, while Celeste was short and curvy. Sharing clothes had never happened when they were growing up, no matter how many miles Celeste ran.
“She looks familiar…not because of a family resemblance, you two don’t look anything alike.”
Her brother and Eden had similar coloring, and favored their dad, while she looked more like her mom. “You probably recognize Eden from the news. She’s changed her name, and is a reporter at WBDJ-TV in Chicago. She does—”
“Investigative reporting,” he finished for her. “Eden Risk, right?”