Double Deception

“I’ll take them off when we get to the station.” His natural caution took precedence. Regardless of the gender of his intruder, experience had taught him how deceptive people could be—especially the female sort.

“The police station?”

“Actually, the county sheriff’s office. Let’s go.” His terse answer harbored no room for discussion.

“My purse!”

Brody paused by the grouping of luggage. He picked up the leather bag that he’d mistaken for a carry-on piece of luggage. “This?”

She nodded.

The damp shirt on his back itched and the house grew colder by the minute, making his hip hurt and his limbs grow numb. He resisted the urge to limp by placing a hand on her arm to guide her out of the house. She tried to pull away but he tightened his hold.

Beneath his palm, she trembled as he helped her into his cruiser. Her flowery, lilac scent once again reminded him of his mother’s garden. A place where he used to find a sense of serenity. Even if he took up Mom’s constant invitations to come home, he doubted he’d find that kind of peace now.

With the heater cranked high, they rode in silence through the small town of Havensport, Massachusetts, the quaint buildings of the New England community surveyed by Brody with a sheriff’s eye.

Stores dark and locked tight, no suspicious characters roaming the streets. There never were. Until tonight. Havensport was as boringly safe as a small town could get, but old habits were hard to break.

The sheriff’s office kept keys of all the summer homes in case of emergencies. Lucky for Pete Kinsey that Mae Couch, the elderly lady who lived next door, had been looking out her window and seen someone lurking about. So unusual an occurrence was it, Sheriff Brody McClain had immediately responded.

He glanced in the rearview mirror. The woman’s face was turned toward the window, but he could make out the straight line of her nose, which tilted upward slightly at the tip and a wide, generous mouth set into a firm crease. She hadn’t spoken since they’d left the house.

Within the enclosed space of his cruiser he couldn’t tell the color of her hair. The lights of the station would tell him soon enough. He returned his gaze forward as he slowed to park the car in his spot by the door of the station.

The Havensport County Sheriff’s Office stood at one end of town like a sentinel on guard duty. Though the redbrick building, built in the early part of the century with a high peaked roof and multipaned windows, had withstood updates both in and out, it still remained a historical landmark, due mainly to the fact that the first sheriff’s family still owned most of the property within a thirty-mile radius around the town.

Brody got out and opened the back door. The woman refused his help and struggled out of the vehicle on her own. With reluctance, he again felt admiration for her grit.

Rain poured from the sky, rolling in rivulets down his face. Quickly, he ushered his charge into the station.

Her hair was copper. He’d always liked redheads. He should have stuck with them instead of being tempted by Elise’s willowy blond good looks.

The station’s warmth seeped through his drenched clothing, bringing life back to his numb limbs and chasing away the cold reality of Elise.

After settling the woman into a chair, he unlocked the handcuffs. She rubbed at the rough, red marks left by the metal rings. Brody lowered his gaze and busied himself at the antique oak desk, ignoring the uncomfortable twinge of guilt that rose at the sight of her reddened, slender wrists.

Deputy Warren Teal stepped from the bathroom, still drying his hands with a paper towel. “Hi, boss.”

Warren’s curious gaze settled on Kate as he crumpled the sheet into a ball. After tossing it into the wastebasket, he perched his lean frame on the edge of Brody’s desk. “What do we have here? This the perp at the Kinsey house?”

Brody arched a brow at the deputy. The young rookie was overeager at times, but fairly competent.

“Sorry.” Warren moved away and sat at the only other desk in the room. “She do that to your face?”

Ignoring the questions and the reminder of his stinging cheek, Brody took a blank report, a pen—he preferred to write out the reports first and key them in later—then turned to the woman. “Name?”

Her gaze pinned him to his chair. Confusion radiated from the depths of her large green eyes. “You don’t know?”

Brody’s mouth twisted with wry amusement. “Lady, I’m good, but not that good.”

She blinked. “Why did you arrest me?”

“B and E is a felony, ma’am.” At her blank expression, he clarified, “Breaking and entering.”

“I didn’t break in,” she insisted, leaning forward. “I own the house. My late husband left the property to me.” Her voice wavered. “If you’ll let me call my attorney, he’ll be able to straighten this whole mess out.”

He glanced at her left hand. No band of gold encircled her ring finger. “Pete Kinsey’s your husband?” That was a surprise. The womanizing stockbroker had commented often enough how marriage turned men into jellyfish. Not exactly the marrying type.

“My husband’s name was Paul Wheeler. He owned the house. Pete Kinsey was my husband’s business partner.”

Warren turned in his chair, his gray eyes round with interest. “Pete never mentioned a business partner.” He shook his head in bemusement. “Wow, can that man party.”

Pete Kinsey’s parties were legendary on the Cape. Every summer he’d host a big bash with the big society types in attendance—Hollywood celebrities, corporate big shots, political figures. The affair lasted a full weekend and the locals looked forward to the money it brought in. And as long as they didn’t break any laws, Brody left them alone.

“Don’t you have some work to do, Warren?”

The deputy shrugged and picked up a report.

Intrigued by the situation and by the petite redhead, Brody tapped his pen against the form in front of him as he studied her. “Your full name?”

“Katherine Amanda Wheeler.”

Brody wrote out her name. “Address?”

The Beverly Hills address took him by surprise. “You’re a long way from home.”

She ignored his comment. “Don’t I get a phone call?”

“As soon as I have the paperwork filled out.” He laid his hand on her purse which he’d deposited on top of his desk. “Is your ID in here?”

“Yes.”

He picked up the satchel and unzipped it. “Mind?”

Her deprecating gaze bored into him. “Do I have a choice?”

“No.” But still he waited for permission.

“Then go ahead.”

He dumped the contents of her purse onto the desktop. A compact, a black tube of lipstick, three granola bars and a thick black wallet spilled out. He unclasped the single snap on the folded wallet and plucked her ID from the first plastic sheath. He wrote down the information on the form. “Your occupation?”

“I work for Valley Savings Bank as the Vice President of Operations. You want to call my boss for a reference?”

Brody cocked his brow. “No. That won’t be necessary.”

She rolled her eyes. The harsh fluorescent light overhead failed to wash out the sparks of fire in her shoulder-length hair. His gaze strayed to the curling ends where they teased the collar of her pink silk blouse. He tightened his grip on the pen in his hand to keep from reaching out to test the curls. Would they be as silky as they looked?

Her clothing spoke of the kind of money that went along with her address. The tailored suit she wore, though wrinkled and damp, couldn’t hide the curves beneath.

“What were you doing there, Mrs. Wheeler?” he questioned, bringing his mind back to business.

“I wanted to see the house.” Katherine wrapped her arms around herself. He noticed her shiver while some of the fight drained from her eyes. The coat he’d failed to take with him hung on the back of his chair. Reaching behind him, he grabbed the jacket and handed it to her.

She wrapped the too-large jacket around her shoulders. “Thanks.”

He gave a short nod of his head. She looked small and vulnerable and in need of protection. Seeing her in his coat made his chest burn. Irritably, he pushed the phone across the desk. “Make your call.”

He didn’t have to offer twice. Her long, tapered fingers moved over the keypad. Brody watched her hands and then, like a gawker at a crime scene, his gaze was drawn to her mouth. Pink, soft-looking. Well-shaped lips. Kissable lips

Yanking his mind away from that treacherous path, he decided he was more tired than he’d thought. The last thing he should be thinking about was his suspect’s kissability.

He forced his attention back to the phone, on the faint metallic sound of a male voice coming through the line. From the look of consternation on Katherine’s face, he guessed an answering machine had picked up.

“Gordon, its Kate. You won’t believe this. I’m at the Havensport Sheriff’s office, of all things. The number here is…” She raised her brows in question.

Brody gave her the number, which she repeated into the phone before hanging up. Circles of fatigue darkened the skin beneath her eyes, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He dearly wished his mother hadn’t raised a gentleman. Despite how much he might want to let Katherine Wheeler go lie down, he still had questions that needed answers.

Swallowing his inclinations, he got back to business. “Why did you think someone was coming to the house to kill you?”

A watchful wariness filled her gaze. “I was alone. You attacked me. What was I supposed to think? That you wanted to dance?”

A spurt of amusement kicked up the corner of Brody’s mouth.

She picked up his nameplate and toyed with it between her slender hands. Her manicured nails clicked against the brass. “Where do we go from here?”

“I need to verify your story, check out your ID—”

“And then?” She lifted an auburn brow.

“Then you’ll tell me what kind of trouble you’re in.”

For a brief second her gem-colored gaze locked with his before darting away. “The only trouble I have is you, Sheriff.”

Brody smiled grimly, tossed his pen on the desk and sat back in his chair. Here we go again.

She was lying.

On the mean streets of Boston, Brody had learned how to read people, learned to watch for the signs, and she definitely showed signs. And this time he wasn’t going to ignore the obvious. She was holding back and not for one second did he believe she’d thought him a random intruder.

The scratches left by her nails itched, reminding him of her blind terror. He dabbed at his face with a tissue. Tiny spots of red soaked into the material. “So, what has you so spooked?”

“Are you going to book me, Sheriff McClain?” Her knuckles turned white around the nameplate. “I’m cold and tired. And I don’t want to sit here while you play amateur psychologist.”

He would have been amused if he hadn’t noticed the fleeting look of disdain in her eyes. She didn’t know the extent of how much psychobabble he could recite or the reasons why. He told himself to forget it, not to offer his help or advice. “You’re afraid of something, Mrs. Wheeler. I can help you, if you let me.”

“This is unbelievable.” Her voice escalated with each syllable. “Of course I’m afraid. You’ve just arrested me.” Her eyes flared with anger, deepening in color to a dark forest green.

“How did your husband die?”

She flinched. The anger drained from her eyes before her gaze shifted downward and her fingers flexed around his nameplate.

“He was murdered,” she answered at last, sounding forlorn and defenseless.

Her distress affected him. He didn’t want to be affected. He wanted to stay detached, uninvolved. But his protective instincts reared up, refusing to be ignored.

“By whom? Do you think Pete Kinsey killed him?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you’re afraid you’re next?” He hadn’t meant for his tone to sound harsh.

Though her peaches-and-cream complexion turned to chalk, her chin lifted and she sat up straighter. The staunch bravado may have returned, but she couldn’t quite hide the anxiety in her eyes.

“So what happens now?” she questioned.

Brody tore his gaze from the slight cleft dimpling the middle of her chin. “You’re my guest until I can verify your story, because as far as I know, Pete Kinsey owns that house.” He stood and motioned her toward the cell. The small, barred cubicle was barren except for a cot, a pillow and a blanket.

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

“It’s not the presidential suite, but it’s better than most, and it’s clean.” And safe.

Those bright green eyes glared at him with haughty indignation that rivaled his younger sister Meghan’s. He smothered a smile.

Kate moved into the cell and turned her back on him. An unsettling protest nagged at Brody. He didn’t like seeing the petite redhead behind bars. She seemed harmless and innocent, hardly a hardened criminal.

He took a step and pain shot down his leg, reminding him sharply that appearances could be deceiving. He’d learned his lesson and he’d sworn never again to let a pretty face distract him from his job. He shifted his weight and eased the pain.

“Here.” Kate slipped the jacket from around her shoulders and shoved it at him. He took it, then closed the cell door, along with the door to his bleeding heart.

Exhaustion overtook Kate and seeped into her bones, making her limbs heavy with lassitude. She grabbed the blanket from the cot and fluffed the pillow with her fist.

Sleeping in a jail cell wasn’t exactly how she’d planned on spending her first night on the east coast, especially not on charges of breaking and entering.

She’d probably said more than she should. Her lawyer had sternly told her not to say anything, ever, without his presence. A self-deprecating grimace pulled at her mouth. Of course, if she’d heeded Gordon’s advice and not left town, she wouldn’t be incarcerated right now.

Sitting down on the narrow, makeshift bed, she muttered, “Better a jail cell than a coffin.”

Her hands twisted the rough blanket. The material grew warm beneath her palms. Her lips formed a wry smile. Thank You, Lord, for giving me such a safe place to sleep tonight.

She looked at the sheriff. From a distance, his big, male body wasn’t nearly as intimidating while hunched in front of his computer screen, his large fingers stabbing at the keys.

The set of his square jaw revealed his concentration and she doubted he realized his dark, wavy hair still glistened with rainwater. His soaked brown uniform emphasized his wide shoulders and broad chest. She could appreciate his masculine appeal with him across the room, but with him up close she’d found herself struggling to breathe evenly.

Abruptly, she shook off the notion of attraction and attributed the thudding of her heart to fear. A tight knot formed in her stomach. Soon, he would learn the complete story of Paul’s death and the police’s interest in her.

The sheriff had been too perceptive by half, his dark, intense eyes assessing her like an oddity. His questions and offer of help spoken in that much-too-pleasing accent had nearly unhinged her, making her want to open up, to tell him what haunted her nightmares. But Paul’s final words echoed inside her head.

Trust…no one.

During the last several weeks, Kate’s natural inclination to look for the good had dimmed until she was afraid even to allow herself to trust a man who should be trustworthy. But the police in Los Angeles had made her very aware that trust had to be earned.

The only person she remotely trusted now was Gordon Thomas, her lawyer. The kindly older gentleman had entered her life when her mother had hired him to deal with her divorce. Over the years he’d stayed a part of their lives, becoming a surrogate uncle for Kate, always willing to listen when she couldn’t deal with her mother. Kate was grateful he’d taken an interest. Gordon had guided Kate in her college and career choices. She hated to think what path she’d have followed without his tutorship.

But this situation demanded she act on her own. She couldn’t ever have the peace and security she craved if she didn’t pursue the truth.

Her gaze wandered back to the sheriff. His dark hair fell across his forehead as he shifted in his seat, obstructing her view of his eyes, though she could see the angry red marks running down the side of his cheek left by her nails. She hoped he wouldn’t scar, although she doubted even the puckering of wounded flesh could decrease the handsomeness of his ruggedly sculpted face.

Overhead, the lights dimmed and then blinked off and on. The sheriff lifted his head and their gazes locked. For a moment they stared at each other and a shaft of embarrassment darted up Kate’s spine to settle in her cheeks. She was staring. She turned sharply away from his hooded, watchful eyes.

“Oh, man.”

The sheriff’s disgruntled voice brought her head back around.

“What’s up?” Warren asked, his wiry form unfolding from his desk chair.

“Computer’s down.” The sheriff straightened and rolled his massive shoulders.

“You look done in. Why don’t you head home? I’ll stay here with the prisoner.”

Kate stiffened at the deputy’s words. Staring hard at the sheriff, she held her breath, waiting for his reply. Don’t go. Lord, please don’t let him leave.

Sheriff McClain leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. His lids dropped, hiding the darkness of his eyes. After a heartbeat he replied, “No, I’ll stay. But there’s no sense in us both being here. You go on home to your pretty wife.”

The deputy slanted Kate one last curious look, shrugged and picked up his jacket from the back of his chair. “Suit yourself. See you in the morning.”

Kate breathed a sigh of relief as the deputy disappeared through the station door. While probably capable, the deputy just didn’t seem as made for the task of protecting her as the sheriff did.

Her attention shifted back to Sheriff McClain. Didn’t he have a wife to go home to? A wife waiting, worrying and wondering if he’d return or would this be the day he died for his dedication to his job? What type of woman would claim the love of a man with a dangerous occupation?

A woman like her own mother.

A woman unlike herself.

She squashed her curiosity. The sheriff’s private life was none of her business. If he left his wife alone and lonely while he gave his job the attention his wife craved, what was that to her? Right now Kate needed him to do his job. She was thankful he’d stayed, but she wasn’t going to dwell on the sheriff or why his presence was comforting.

Instead, she lay down on the cot and pulled the blanket to her chin. She doubted sleep would come, but closing her eyes and pretending sure beat staring at the too-handsome man who’d arrested her.

The storm’s wrath didn’t seem to penetrate the station walls and the room fell silent. Feeling relatively safe for the time being, Kate tried to relax. Unaccountably, she felt the sheriff would keep her from harm. God had put her in his care. She’d face her worries again with the new day.

Her body grew heavy and her lids felt weighted down as sleep settled in. Faintly, she heard a rustling of noise. The sheriff finally moving from his reclined position. His quiet footfalls echoed inside her head, but she was too groggy to open her eyes to see what he was doing.

Even when she heard the quiet click, then the slight squeak of the cell door opening, she couldn’t muster up enough panic to rouse her from slumber.

She felt the added weight of another blanket being laid across her. With a sigh, she snuggled beneath the cocoon of rough material and drifted completely to sleep.

Brody stared at the sleeping woman.

Katherine Wheeler. No, he much preferred the informal Kate that she’d referred to herself as.

Why did he care if she grew cold? It shouldn’t matter. But it did.

There was something compelling about her, something that pulled at him. Maybe it was the vulnerability he saw in her large, springtime eyes or the fact that she’d felt safe enough to allow herself to rest. Whatever the case, it had to stop. He couldn’t allow himself to be drawn in by her.

Until Kate’s story checked out, he had to think of her as a criminal. He half hoped she did own the house; he’d hate to see her end up in Walpole. Massachusetts Criminal Institute Cedar Junction was no place for such a pretty woman.

But then again, if what she said was true…what if she decided to become a resident of Havensport? Brody had an uneasy feeling that having her in the same town for any length of time would be hazardous to his carefully tended solitude.

Ha! As if you’d ever let a woman get close to you again, reprimanded his inner voice. As if this woman, who drips with class, would ever want to get close to you.

Brody drew back from the sleeping woman on the cot. He rubbed the spot on his hip where he bore the constant reminder of what trusting a woman could do. Old anger and helpless rage roared to life and Brody let out a compressed breath. He spun away and stalked back to his desk to stare at the blank computer screen.

The quicker he cleared up the mess with his guest, the better. Then his nice quiet life could resume the way he wanted it.

Alone.

THREE

Sunshine streamed through the barred window of the jail cell, spilling slanted lines of light across the cement floor and onto the cot where Kate lay. The warmth of the golden rays touched her cheek, and roused her from sleep.

Turning her head fully into the light, Kate frowned at the faint scent that clung to the air. She couldn’t place it, but she knew it. A masculine fragrance, which stirred up images of a hard body pressed against her, a handsome face and a tender gesture.

The sheriff.

Kate’s lids popped opened, her body tensed on the hard cot. Now she remembered where she was and why. Staring up at the gray ceiling of the jail cell, she listened for movement. Only the sounds of her own breathing met her ears. Was she alone in the jailhouse? She only had to turn her head to see through the black bars, but she stayed motionless, assessing her situation.

Strangely, she hadn’t dreamed last night. One would think being locked up in a cold jail cell would bring her nightmares on full force. But she felt rested and ready to tackle the task of discovering why Paul had been murdered.

First she had to deal with Sheriff McClain.

Once Gordon explained about the house, the sheriff would have to let her go. But she had a disquieting feeling her association with the man wouldn’t end there. He seemed the type to press, to find challenge in uncovering secrets. Her heart skipped a beat. Maybe the sheriff could help.

She sat up abruptly.

No. She couldn’t trust anyone, save God. Even this man who’d sounded so sincere when he’d offered his help, who had cared enough to supply another blanket, who’d…she glanced down.

On the floor, next to her feet, sat a tray with juice, cereal and milk. Surprise and a good dose of pleased warmth suffused her.

Her gaze sought out the sheriff. He sat leaning over his desk with his cheek resting on his forearms. Asleep. He looked boyish, with waves of ebony spilling over his forehead and dark lashes splayed across his cheeks. Kate shook her head in wonder. Just when had Sheriff McClain brought the tray in? She’d heard the squeak of the cell door only once, when he’d brought her the blanket.

A violent shudder swept her body. She’d spent a dreamless night within the cell, lulled to sleep by a false sense of security. Anyone could easily have killed her in her sleep. Anyone being the sheriff.

But he hadn’t.

Sheriff McClain was not the enemy. He hadn’t known Paul. The man was simply a small-town sheriff doing his job. In her heart, she acknowledged that as truth, but her brain wasn’t so sure.