Linda Howard - Kill and Tell

Perhaps the sense of intimacy was all on her part; perhaps Southern men were normally this solicitous toward women. She hadn't known any Southerners before, since they didn't exactly flock to Columbus, Ohio, so she had no means of comparison. If Detective Marc Chastain was typical of the Southern male, she thought, then the women in the rest of the country didn't know what they were missing. They reached the car, and Marc went to the driver's side and turned his back, just as he had promised. The brutal sun beat down on their heads, and he shrugged out of his jacket, holding it in one hand while he waited.

His black hair was rain-wet and gleamed in the sun. His white shirt was thin, letting the warmth of his skin show through the fabric as it draped across his broad shoulders. Karen looked across the car at

him, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. For a moment, she stood paralyzed, unable to look away from him. Every detail was suddenly overwhelming in its clarity: the size of him, the set of his head on his shoulders, the neatness of his ears, the black hair that tapered to a point on the back of his neck. That big pistol was still clipped to his belt, and she wondered if he ever went anywhere without it. She had never before been so acutely, physically aware of a man as she was in that moment, almost breathless from the impact on her senses.

"May I turn around now?" he asked lazily, and the moment passed.

"Not yet," she said. He settled against the side of the car, still patient. Karen looked down at her leg. The torn nylon sagged, looking much worse than bare legs would. Vanity, if nothing else, inclined her to do as he said. Faintly amused, at both him and herself, she lifted her skirt and hurriedly peeled off the ruined panty hose, then wadded the nylon into a ball and stuffed it in her purse.

To her surprise, she instantly felt better. As hot and muggy as the air was, she was immeasurably more comfortable without the hot nylon wrapping her from waist to toe.

Almost as soon as she straightened, he was around the car, opening the door for her. There was that touch again, this time on her back, gently guiding her into the car. From out of nowhere surged a longing to be in his arms again, comforted and protected, to be able to rest her head on his shoulder. Such weakness was so alien to her that Karen automatically straightened her shoulders, mentally recoiling. Yes, she had been under a lot of stress, and while maybe it was okay to lean on that strong shoulder for a little while, she wouldn't allow herself to make a habit of it.

As he slid behind the wheel, he gave her his habitual half-smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and just barely curled his lips, the one that made him look sleepy and… something else; she wasn't certain just what.

"On second thought, it looks like it's going to rain again, so walking in the Quarter is out," he said. "We'll go to my house. We can sit on the balcony, drink a glass of wine, people-watch. You don't need to mope around a hotel room all by yourself."

An afternoon walk and dinner were one thing, but going to his house was quite another. "I've imposed enough—" she began.

"Don't argue."

"It's your day off, and I—"

"I said don't argue."

The easiness of his tone kept her from taking umbrage but didn't blind her to his determination. He had decided she was going to his house, so go she would.

It was because he was a cop, she thought, letting her head drop back against the seat. When he gave an order, he expected it to be obeyed. Doctors were like that, too. A nurse didn't have to agree with the order, as long as she carried it out. But that was her job, and this wasn't. Nor was it police business. She could tell him no. The problem was, she didn't want to. She wanted to sit on his balcony and sip a glass

of wine; it seemed so Southern, so New Orleans . She wanted to amuse herself with a little people-watching. She definitely didn't want to face that empty hotel room right now. They didn't talk much during the half-hour drive back to the city. She felt limp, oddly detached, almost dreamy. She recognized it as the aftermath of her emotional storm and relief that the funeral was over, as if she had accomplished some herculean task and now could rest. The sense of drifting was pleasant. She didn't realize he lived in the Quarter until he turned onto St. Louis. Until then, she had just thought he was taking a shortcut through the Quarter, though when she looked at it logically, she knew that was ridiculous. Why wind his way through the narrow, crowded streets of the Quarter to get anywhere except in the Quarter? He slowed and punched the button on his garage door opener, and a wide blue door began sliding upward. He wheeled the car into the opening when there was barely enough room for it to fit under, making her gasp and duck her head.

He chuckled. "Sorry. When you pull in here enough times, you learn how to judge it down to the inch." He cut off the car engine, got out, and walked around to her side of the car. Karen felt awkward just sitting there and making no attempt to open the car door herself, but she waited anyway. It took only a few seconds, and he seemed to expect to perform the courtesy. He opened the door, and she got out. He put his hand on her back again, a warm, light pressure that guided her toward a flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs, he unlocked a wooden door and opened it outward, ushering her through. She stepped out onto a wide balcony that overlooked a luxurious courtyard. An old stone fountain occupied the middle, serving as a focal point around which plants of all kinds flourished. Enormous ferns and tall palms waved their lacy fronds; roses and geraniums and other flowers she couldn't name filled the air with perfume. She was certain she caught the scent of jasmine, though she didn't see any of the little starry white flowers. Enchanted, she stepped forward and rested her hands on the wrought-iron railing. This was wonderful. She looked down at a stone bench almost hidden among the foliage and wondered if he used the garden to escape from the stresses of his job.

"It's beautiful." She drew the delicious scent deep into her lungs.

"Thanks. One of the tenants keeps the place looking like a greenhouse, and I give her a break on the rent. The courtyard's nice, but I don't have time to take care of the plants. It would be just rock and dirt down there if it wasn't for Mrs. Fox."

"Then bless Mrs. Fox," she said, reluctant to leave the small paradise.

"Amen." He unlocked a door as he spoke, opening it inward and holding out his hand to her. She left the railing and walked inside, and felt as if she had also left the twentieth century behind. This house was from a different era, a different world. The plastered ceilings were at least twelve feet high, and the furniture was antique, but it was the kind of antique that was used every day, not put behind glass. The faded rug beneath her feet was still thick and luxurious, marvelously cushiony. The only modern note was a big easy chair, large enough to accommodate his height.

She started to ask how he could afford a place like this on a cop's salary, but the question was too rude, and she bit it back.

"I inherited the house from my grandmother," he said, watching her look around. "The attic is full of pieces of furniture that are two hundred years old. The fabric rots, of course, but I take care of the wood and every so often have a piece reupholstered."

"It must be wonderful, living in a place like this."

"I grew up here, so sometimes I take it for granted, but yeah, it's great." He held out his hand again, beckoning her forward. "This way." He led her through a small dining room and into the kitchen, then through double French doors leading out onto another balcony, this one overlooking the street. "Have a seat," he invited. "I'll get us something to drink. Are you hungry?"

"No, I—"

"I bet you didn't eat lunch," he said, his eyes narrowing. "Did you?"

"No," she admitted.

"You're a nurse," he said evenly. "You should know better. Sit." Karen sat. He went inside, and she relaxed in the cushioned wrought-iron chair, watching the activity in the street below with a sort of fuzzy curiosity. She was tired and empty and still a little numb. Sitting here was just about all she felt she could manage right now. She looked at the hanging baskets of ferns, at the French doors on either side of her, and again felt herself in another world. The hot afternoon sun had cranked the temperature up into the nineties again, making steam rise from pockets of rainwater on the sidewalks, but the shade kept the heat tolerable. She needed a fan, though, just to be in keeping with the atmosphere. Smiling at the thought, she closed her eyes.

She must have dozed, rousing only when he set a tray on the table beside her. The tray held sandwiches of shaved ham, a plate of cookies, two empty glasses, and a bottle of red wine. "A domesticated man," she said, and heard the dreaminess of her tone as if she hadn't quite awakened yet.

"Don't give me too many points," he said in the lazy tone he seemed to have patented, sitting down on the other side of the little table. "The cookies are from a bakery, and any fool can make a sandwich." He had changed clothes, she noticed, shedding the tie and exchanging his slacks for a pair of threadbare jeans. He was barefoot, and though he still wore the white shirt, he had left the tails hanging out, wrinkled from where it had been tucked in before. He had also opened a couple of buttons, so that it was fastened only to the middle of his chest. A broad, hairy chest, she noticed, still drowsy. Nice. He propped his bare feet on the balcony railing, sighing as he relaxed. "Kick your shoes off," he invited. She did, because the idea of being barefoot in this steamy weather sounded so wonderful. And she propped her feet on the railing, too, reasoning that passersby below wouldn't be able to see more than a few inches up her skirt, assuming anyone even looked. There was too much going on at street level for anyone to be concerned with whether or not she showed a little leg. She sighed just as he had, because it felt wonderful to be free of the hot, restricting shoes, to put her feet up, to feel her spine loosening. She so seldom just sat that this was a luxury.

Without sitting up from his relaxed position, Marc stretched out an arm and expertly poured two glasses of wine. "Eat," he said, and waited until she took one of the sandwiches before snagging the other for himself.

Silently, she munched on the sandwich, sipped the wine, and watched the tourists strolling below. From somewhere drifted the sound of a street band, and she could also hear someone expertly playing show tunes on a piano. Snippets of conversation floated upward, mere background to the moment. She

couldn't imagine any other place in the world like New Orleans, with its casual, exotic magic. Their feet were propped side by side on the railing, and she surveyed them with interest, struck by the differences. Hers were much smaller and more slender, delicately formed, definitely feminine. His feet were big, bony, a little hairy on top: masculine. Interesting.

"Do you know," she murmured, still dreamy, "why men's feet look so different from women's?" He moved his left foot over so it was touching her right one, eyeing them. Cocking his head a little, he said, "Nail polish."

If he had been within reach, she would have elbowed him. "Nooo. It was all that running around barefoot, chasing antelope and woolly mammoths."

He laughed, actually laughed aloud, a deep and deliciously male sound that made her toes curl. "So women's feet stayed dainty because all they had to do was wander around and pick berries."