Joan Pickart - Body of Evidence

“So do I.”

Later, when they were outside walking to the car, Darien still wasn’t sure of anything except that this was asking for trouble. Yet when he entrapped her with his arms against the car, even though she could easily have escaped, she didn’t make a move.

“Maybe,” he said, his voice low and husky, “we should dip a toe in the water and see just how hot it is.”

“I suppose,” she said rather breathlessly, “we should find out what we’re resisting. Maybe it won’t be so hard after all.”

“Yeah, right,” he muttered, and lowered his mouth to hers.

Darien knew in the first three seconds that fighting this was going to be next to, if not beyond, impossible. His mouth was rich with the taste of wine and the chocolate they’d had for dessert, and with something indefinable that was pure Colin. Her nerves came to life with startling speed, as if they’d been waiting for this moment, this man. Anything she’d known before paled next to this.

She heard him make a sound, deep in his throat. He seemed to hesitate, and she thought he was going to pull back. Her response was immediate, without thought; she flicked her tongue over his lips in an effort to keep him there.

It worked. The sound he was making became a groan, and his arms came around her, pulling her hard to him. He probed her mouth with his tongue, taking the hint she’d offered. Fire leapt through her, and all thought of danger, all the reasons they shouldn’t do this, were seared to ash.

By the time he finally did pull back, Darien was shaking. And it didn’t comfort her much to realize he was breathing fast and hard as he stared down at her, his eyes as hot as the flames that had scorched her.

“That answers that,” he said roughly.

“It certainly does,” she whispered.

They were both in trouble now. For a long, tense moment they simply looked at each other, and somehow Darien knew he was thinking the same thing she was: what had they unleashed?

When his cell phone rang, he didn’t even react until the second ring. Then, with an effort that was obvious, he pulled it out and pushed the talk button.

“Waters.” He listened for what seemed like a long time. Then, finally, he said, “No, I’m not surprised. We’d already reached that conclusion. But now we have proof. Thanks.”

He informed the caller that they would start anew tomorrow, and then hung up.

“That was the sergeant from the facility where Reicher’s being held,” he said. “ Benton called him. Sutter’s determined our killer had to be left-handed.”

Her brows shot up. “And Reicher is right-handed.”

He nodded. “So we’ve got the satisfaction of knowing we were right. And the job of starting all over to find our killer.”

“Joy,” she muttered.

“And,” he added softly, “the extra job of figuring out what to do about this personal fire we’ve started.”

“That, too.”

“W hen in doubt, start with the family,” Darien said. “Isn’t that what they always say?”

Colin nodded. “That’s what the statistics say.”

“Well, all I can say is the matriarch should be the last one we talk to, or we’ll be dead in the water before we start.”

“I had that same feeling,” he said, stifling a yawn that reminded him too clearly of a restless night spent remembering that heated kiss they’d shared. “I’m thinking we hit the son again first, since he’s the one dodging us.”

…they may have fought about the money he was going to inherit, but Stephen had nothing to do with this!

Lyle’s vehement defense of his nephew had been echoing in his head, and he wondered if perhaps the man had reason to think the young man needed it.

A single phone call not only set the course of their day, but gave them a piece of information that made them both react with interest; Stephen Gardner had dropped out of school.

This trip to the Gardner estate was considerably different than the last one. For one, they were now looking for a suspect in the family circle. Secondly, they had the memory of that kiss between them.

And this time, there would be no insulating her grandson from reality for Cecelia Gardner.

“Get any sleep last night?” Colin asked.

“Not much,” she admitted.

“Me either. What are we going to do about it?”

“Get over it?” she suggested, but without much conviction.

“I wish,” he said dryly. He wasn’t particularly stung by her words, mainly because they were uttered with such acknowledgment of the impossibility of what she’d said.

But doing anything else seemed impossible, too.

“It would never work,” he said.

“Probably not,” she agreed, surprising him; he’d expected her to disagree. “But,” she went on, “I’m curious why you think that.”

“Because you want everything I’m no good at. You’re cut out for marriage, kids, the white picket fence, the whole bit.”

When she answered, her words came slowly, as if she’d chosen them very carefully. “You don’t know what I want, proven by the fact that I don’t like white picket fences. But that aside, why do you say you’re not cut out for the rest?”

“My marriage proved that.”

“Hmm. My marriage failed, too, but all it proved was that we were too young. But you assume yours proved that you were unfit for all time? A little premature, wouldn’t you say?”

He’d never thought of it quite that way before. “Maybe,” he muttered.

“At least you didn’t decide that because you couldn’t trust one woman, you can’t trust any,” she said.

“It was my-” He stopped in the middle of the old refrain, that his fractured marriage was his fault.

I believe an affair is the fault of the person involved. If you want out, get out, but you don’t cheat.

Her words came back to him, and now that he knew her a little better, he knew she meant them. That’s the code she would live by, an honesty he’d thought didn’t exist. If there was a problem in the relationship, the guy wouldn’t get blindsided, because Darien Wilson would come out and say so. He knew that with a bone-deep certainty that surprised him, given the short time he’d known her.

She was quiet the rest of the drive, giving him time to think. He appreciated that she didn’t feel the need to fill each silent moment with chatter. Then again, he was nervous about what he was thinking, so maybe he shouldn’t be so glad she was allowing him time to do it.

When they arrived at the Gardner estate, the only thing they revealed was that they had an update for the family. It was enough to get the butler-or whoever answered the intercom-to open the massive driveway gate for them. And then they got lucky; Darien spotted Stephen Gardner outside the large garage beside the house, apparently directing a chauffeur or servant in how to correctly wax what appeared to be a brand-new European luxury coupe.

“New toy?” Colin wondered aloud.

“Not wasting any time spending daddy’s money, is he?” Darien said.

“So it would seem,” Colin agreed as he halted the city vehicle, which looked derelict in comparison, a few feet from the garage activity.

He looked little like his father, with thick, medium-brown hair and brown eyes. And had none of Franklin Gardner’s reported charisma; Stephen Gardner seemed a bit sulky, almost sullen. And, Colin guessed, more than a little anger was hidden away under that surface.

If I had a son, he wouldn’t end up like this, Colin muttered to himself. And nearly stopped breathing when he realized what he’d thought. And that the child who popped into his head had blond hair.

“Colin?” Darien said, sounding a bit odd, although she never looked away from the younger Gardner.