Nothing to Fear Page 7

  Buchanan wasn’t buying it. “Uh-huh. And why were you in the bus station so late?”

  This one at least she was ready for. “I was waiting for a bus.”

  “To?”

  “From. I was meeting a friend.”

  “Who is where?”

  “She didn’t get off the bus, so I guess she’s not coming after all.” She’d waited for tonight’s client for two hours, but the woman had never gotten off the bus. Again.

  He raised a blond brow. “Impolite friend.”

  Dana shrugged, laying it on a little thicker. “More like flaky. She says she’s going to come and gets the dates mixed up. Tomorrow she’ll call, crying her eyes out in apology.”

  “Which you’ll accept.”

  “Naturally. She’s my friend.”

  He tilted his head. “So what do you do when you’re not meeting flaky friends at the bus terminal, Dana?”

  “I’m a photographer. You know, mothers and babies, that sort of thing.” This was actually true. Sort of. She’d been worried that the constant flow of women and children in and out of Hanover House would attract unwanted attention from her neighbors. It had been Evie’s idea to put out a small, discreet sign advertising family photography. Dana already had the camera equipment she used to produce new driver’s licenses and it did explain all the women and children, but to Dana’s annoyance and Evie’s amusement, sometimes they drew real business. Normally enough to pay the monthly phone bill, but not enough to threaten the true mission of Hanover House, so everybody was happy.

  She leaned back, studied him. “So why were you calling on customers with a rumpled suit and two days’ beard at five-thirty in the morning?”

  He lifted one corner of his very nice mouth and every square inch of her skin sizzled, some square inches a lot more than others. “Nice. I was just about to cut you a handicap.”

  She bit back a smile of her own. “Keep your handicap. Just answer the question.”

  “I just got into town and wanted to check out their night talent before calling on the boss during the day. It’s the best strategy for winning new business. Evaluate their vulnerabilities”—he leaned forward conspiratorially—“and offer something better.”

  His voice had softened to something close to a purr and all Dana could think of was a big golden cat, stalking his prey. But she didn’t feel threatened. Not in the conventional sense anyway. She felt . . . powerful, like he’d given her a secret key.

  “Are you . . . evaluating my vulnerabilities, Mr. Buchanan?”

  Those steady green eyes gleamed. “Ethan.”

  She acknowledged his point with a small nod. “Ethan. Well, are you?”

  He said nothing for a moment, just held her gaze. Finally he leaned back, and when he spoke all smooth texture and pretense were gone from his voice. “Do you want me to?”

  It was not the answer she expected and she blinked. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. I get the impression that you don’t say or do anything you don’t want to do. And if someone tries to make you, you duck the issue like a pro.”

  She blinked again. “What a strange thing to say.” And reasonably true.

  “Astute, I’d think. Well?”

  She drew a breath and gave him the most honest answer she knew. “I don’t know.”

  He nodded. “That’s fair, I suppose. One more question and I’ll let you go.”

  Disappointment speared her heart at the very thought of his leaving. “Okay. Ask.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend, husband, or significant other . . . of any kind?”

  It was her turn to cough at his implication. “No current husbands or boyfriends and I’m heterosexual, thank you very much.”

  He smiled at that. “Good to know. Can I then assume you have an ex-husband?”

  She thought about her ex-husband, the years she’d suffered under his abuse. The relief at breaking free. She’d never looked back. “Very ex. So ex he’s way past Z. You?”

  “Ex. Not as ex as yours. She’s probably only halfway to Y.” When she smiled back he leaned forward, his nice mouth gone totally serious. “You felt it back there, didn’t you?”

  Instantly she sobered. Opened her mouth to deny it, but couldn’t. “Yes.”

  It wasn’t until he exhaled that she realized he’d been holding his breath for her answer. Realized that he’d just exposed one of his vulnerabilities. He slid his hand across the table until it covered hers. “I have to go now. Meet me here. Tomorrow. Same time.”

  It wasn’t a question. It was a demand, insistently offered. Dana sat staring at him, feeling it all over again, that surge of current at just the touch of his hand. And suddenly she stood at the edge of a precipice, somehow knowing that her answer was very important. The wariness with which she lived every day of her life inserted itself. “I don’t—”

  He shook his head, interrupting her. “You’re cautious, I understand that. I won’t ask for your number, or your sign, or even your favorite color. I promise.” He clenched his jaw for a moment, then visibly relaxed it. “Life is too short, Dana. Too damn short not to seize opportunities when they present themselves.”

  Something had changed. Gone was the stalking cat, in its place a man as honest as she thought she’d ever met. It’s just fries and a Coke. How much safer could it be?

  Her eyes dropped to his hand, still covering hers. Still hot. Electric. She raised her gaze to find his intently focused on her face. “Green.” The word was out of her mouth before she realized it.

  His eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “My favorite color is green.”

  He leaned back, relief in his green eyes. “Tomorrow then? Same time?”

  His hand no longer covered hers and she wanted it back. And because she wanted it back, she wanted to run. “I’ll think about it.”

  His blond brows furrowed ever so slightly. “Think hard. I’ll be here.”

  Chapter Five

  Wight’s Landing, Maryland, Sunday, August 1, 8:30 A.M. Eastern (7:30 A.M. Central)

  Sheriff Louisa Moore shook her head in disbelief, her eyes watering from the stench of decaying flesh. Mr. Stan Vaughn had placed a call to her office this morning, clearly in a panic. He’d found a body, he’d said. Well, he’d certainly been right on that score.

  Lou covered her mouth and stuck her head in the little shed. “Find anything, Doc?”

  County Coroner John Kehoe looked up, the top half of his face covered with goggles, the bottom half with a surgical mask.

  “Not yet.”

  Her first partner back in Boston told her she’d get used to the bloaters, but ten years and a major career change later, she still had not. “Then at least a time of death?”

  John sat back on his haunches. “Three days, maybe four. Sometime between Wednesday and Thursday, I’d guess. The bugs will tell the true tale.”

  Lou fought back the urge to gag. “Bugs?”

  “Sure. I’ll send samples of the bugs and their larvae to the lab.” He rocked forward to his knees. “Give me another half hour, then we’ll be ready for tag ’n’ bag. I don’t need you here if you want to run on up to the house.”

  “Thanks.”

  She made her way up to the house, scanning the beach as she went. Her deputies had combed every inch of sand for several hundred yards on each side of the body. They’d had a bad storm Thursday night. Any evidence outside the shed would most likely have been washed away.

  But it looked like a suicide, so that would probably not be a major concern. But the boxers bothered her. Why would a man come to a stranger’s shed wearing only his boxers to commit suicide? And where was the note? And could the Vaughns really have ignored that smell for almost two days? She let herself in the kitchen. “Mr. Vaughn?”

  “We’re in the living room.”

  They were, sitting side by side on an old sofa. Lou studied the Vaughns for a moment. Both looked pale. It was understandable, of course. It wasn’t every day vacationers found a dead body in their
shed. Still, there was something about these two that bothered her. “Dr. Kehoe is examining the body right now,” she said and the two nodded. “Can you tell me how long you’ve been staying here?”

  “For about a week,” Mrs. Vaughn said, her voice quavery. “We got here Sunday, but we left again on Tuesday.”

  Lou slipped her notepad from her breast pocket, not breaking eye contact. “Why?”

  Mr. Vaughn covered Mrs. Vaughn’s hand with his. “We went to Annapolis for our tenth wedding anniversary.”

  If she hadn’t been watching she would have missed it, missed the way Mrs. Vaughn flinched when her husband touched her. Still, the woman had discovered a suicide in her backyard, a grisly one at that. “When did you come back?”

  “Friday afternoon,” Mr. Vaughn answered.

  Just the facts, ma’am, Lou thought. She smiled pleasantly. “What time?”

  Mrs. Vaughn moved her shoulders back and forth. “Three-thirty. Or so.”

  “And where did you stay in Annapolis?”

  Mr. Vaughn frowned. “Statehouse Hotel, but why are you asking?”

  Lou shrugged. “Just gathering all the information. Did you see anyone lurking around?”

  Mr. Vaughn was still frowning. “No.”

  “Mr. Vaughn, Mrs. Vaughn.” Lou shook her head, giving a friendly grimace. “I’m curious as to how you could have ignored that smell for a day and a half.”

  “We did,” Mr. Vaughn replied smoothly. “Sometimes after a storm we find dead fish littering the shore. Once, a small shark washed up. The tide always comes in and takes it away. There was a storm Thursday night. We just assumed . . .” He let the thought trail with a grimace of his own. “I have to say my brother had the iron stomach of the family. I get queasy thinking about dead things. I just prefer to let the bay do the work for me. But it didn’t and we couldn’t stand it anymore, so I went down to investigate. And found that poor man.”

  Lou glanced down at her notepad, irritated by the polish of his reply. “Well, I won’t take any more of your time. But, please let me know when you plan to go home.” Outside again, she covered her mouth with her handkerchief as she made her way back to the shed. Dr. Kehoe was directing her deputies as they rolled the gurney bearing the body bag.

  He pulled his mask off. “I’ll call you when I know something.”

  “And I’ll check the missing persons reports,” she said. “That’s all we can do for now.”

  Chicago, Sunday, August 1, 8:00 A.M.

  Dana smelled the beef stew before she slipped into Hanover House’s kitchen. Caroline was here, doing her normal Sunday cooking that would last them well into the week.

  “I was wondering when you’d get back,” Caroline said. She looked over her shoulder and her eyes widened. “What happened?”

  “I had a little accident in the bus station.”

  Caroline found the first-aid kit and pushed Dana into a chair. “You need stitches.”

  “A butterfly bandage will do.”

  “That’s what you always say.” She started cleaning the cut with peroxide. “David came by last night after he left here. He told me about Lillian. I’m so sorry.”

  Dana drew a deep shuddering breath. “Me, too.”

  “David also said you and Evie had words.”

  “You could call it that, I guess.”

  “Dana, you know Evie is wrong. I worked with Lillian, too. She wasn’t going to leave Chicago. New names would not have helped her.”

  “I know.”

  “Then you also know you’ve stalled long enough. What happened, honey?”

  From the corner of her eye, Dana watched Caroline exchange the brown bottle of peroxide for the disinfectant. “Just a little accident. Ow. That stings.”

  Caroline tilted Dana’s face up to the light, her blue eyes troubled. “You have a bruise, too. Did somebody’s husband do this to you? Lillian’s husband?”

  “No. It really was an accident. Some junkie tried to rob an old lady.”

  Peeling a length of adhesive tape, Caroline sighed. “And you just stepped right in?”

  “It was reflex. He gave me a shove and my head hit a bench.” Her eyes teared as her hair was pulled back from the cut. “Ow. Dammit, Caro, that really hurts.”

  “Sorry. When was this?”

  Dana glanced at the kitchen clock. “About two and a half hours ago.”

  Caroline drew back, surprised. “What took you so long to get here?”

  Dana hesitated, then shrugged. “There was . . . this guy.”

  Caroline’s hands stilled. “Did this . . . guy have a name?”

  “Ethan Buchanan.”

  “Hmm. Nice name.” She gently pressed the bandage into place.

  “His name wasn’t the only thing that was nice,” Dana responded dryly and Caroline huffed a chuckle before carefully lowering her pregnant body into a chair.

  She sat back, arms propped on her rounded stomach, her eyes sober. “Tell me.”

  “Well, it was right after the junkie hit me. When I opened my eyes . . . he was there.”

  Caroline held up her hand. “Wait just a minute. You mean you were unconscious after you hit your head? And you didn’t go to the hospital? Are you insane?”

  “If I was out, it was only for a few seconds. And I didn’t go to the hospital because I don’t have insurance. Not everybody has a rich husband, you know.”

  Caroline looked pained. “You know we’d pay for your insurance, Max and I.”

  “And you know I don’t take what I don’t earn. You want to hear this or not?”

  “You know I do. So he was there, this Ethan Buchanan. Then what?”

  Dana moved her shoulders uncomfortably. Now that she had to say it, it sounded pretty stupid. Then he looked at me. It sounded so childish. But he had done no more than that, not at first. “I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”

  “Try,” Caroline drawled.

  “Dammit, I don’t know. I was all mad and upset and my head hurt and then, there he was, all of a sudden. He . . . he looked at me. And then . . .”

  Blonde brows lifted. “And then?”

  “I felt like everything would be all right. Like I’d always known him. Dumb, huh?”

  “No.” Caroline’s voice was gentle. “Don’t even think it. So what happened then?”

  Dana drew a very deep breath. “He touched my hand to help me up and it was like . . . electricity. Like when they use the paddles to start your heart.”

  Caroline’s eyes had grown wide. “Mercy.”

  Dana had to chuckle at the subdued exclamation. “Yeah. I tried to leave before the security guard came back from trying to catch the junkie, but Ethan wouldn’t let me go. Said he was afraid I had a concussion. Then he made me go get breakfast with him.”

  “Made you, huh?”

  Dana shot her a foul look. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Immensely. So what will you do next?”

  “He asked me to meet him there tomorrow. I said I’d think about it.”

  Blond brows arched. “Which means yes or no?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Caroline touched her hand. “What’s really bothering you, honey?”

  Dana blew out a breath. “I don’t know. I’ve just got . . . ” She rubbed her hand over her chest to relieve the pressure building there. “Do you believe in fate?”

  Caroline didn’t blink. “Yes. And no.”

  “Well, that’s definitive.”

  Caroline smiled. “I know. I learned it in law school last semester. How to Dodge Secret of Life Questions 101. I got an A.”

  Dana’s lips curved in spite of herself. “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” Caroline sobered slightly, flinching. “That was a swift one.” She shifted in her chair, rubbing the side of her stomach with the heel of her hand. “He/she’s active this morning.” She leaned back, her gaze sharp, her palm resting atop her unborn child. “How can I sit here today and tell you I don’t beli
eve in fate? I met Max at just the right time . . . for both of us. I think the fate part is where we met. But I distinctly remember the moment when I decided not to walk away.” Her eyes sharpened. “Fate is the opportunity. Choice is what you do with it.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Dana said quietly.

  Caroline tilted her head. “Ethan Buchanan made a pretty big impression on you.”

  Dana’s chuckle was mirthless. He had. She just had no idea what to do about it. “I was thinking about you and Max and then I wondered—what if I never meet anyone of my own?”

  “Dana—”

  Dana shook her head. “No, really. And then I thought, so what if I do? Would it really matter? Would I walk away from what I do? Could I? It’s what I am.”

  “You are a great deal more than the director of Hanover House, Dana. But that aside, why should you have to give up what you do?”

  “Please, Caroline. I practically live at the House. I sleep in my own apartment maybe once a week. I could never give someone the time a relationship deserves.”

  “Well, then, I suppose that’s the choice.” Caroline drew a breath, let it out. “Did it ever occur to you that you don’t have to work at Hanover House forever?”

  Dana’s mind was flooded with the picture of Lillian’s children discovering their mother’s body. Even as she desperately tried to push the picture away, it morphed into the image that still managed to rip her insides to shreds. She stared down at the backs of her hands, then her palms. “No, this is something I have to do. It’s . . . it’s my life. That’s all.”

  Caroline grasped Dana’s hands, kneaded her palms with her thumbs. “Look at me, Dana. Look at me.” Dana raised her eyes slowly, saw Caroline’s face focused with singular intent. “Your hands are clean, Dana. Don’t you think you deserve a life of your own? Don’t you think you deserve to be happy, too?”

  The question hit harder than the bench. Dana opened her mouth, but not a sound came out and Caroline’s blue eyes went sad. “Go get some sleep, Dana. Maybe things will be clearer when you’re not exhausted.”