Carla Neggers - The Widow

“What lines?”

“Ethical lines. Legal lines. But I won’t cover up for anyone. I won’t look the other way just to avoid hurting people. Hurting myself.”

He slipped his hand behind her neck. “You’ve thought it all through, haven’t you?”

“I’ve had seven years.”

“As much as I want to kiss you now,” he said, “and as much as I’ve wanted to kiss you for a lot of those seven years, if I could go back in time and stop Chris from leaving you that day, I’d do it.”

“Owen-” Her head spun. “Chris always said you were one of the best people he knew. He wished he’d known you better. I can see why Linc Cooper and Sean and Ian Alden idolize you. You’re one of the most highly-regarded search-and-rescue specialists in the world. But to me-” she touched the scar under his eye “-you’re also a tumbleweed and just a little reckless.”

“I’ve never fallen off the edge of a tub while sneaking through someone’s bathroom shelves.”

When they kissed, Abigail closed her eyes, hearing the ocean, smelling the salt and pine in the air. She wrapped her arms around his hard middle and drew herself tight against him, ignoring any sting of pain in her scraped arm and cut leg. Instead of putting her on her guard, scaring her, the hunger and desire-the soul-deep yearning-that surged through her energized her.

Owen caught her by the waist and lifted her, kissing her throat. She hooked her legs around his hips and gave herself up to the exquisite pleasure of his mouth and tongue on her flesh.

When she threw herself back in his arms, the strain on her thigh was too much, and she gave a small cry at the tug of pain. She immediately tried to cover it with a moan of pure desire, but the man who had her aloft was an expert in pain.

He unhooked her legs and set her back down on the floor. “Okay?’

“A little more wild abandon than my body’s ready for.”

“Part of your body, anyway.”

“Well-there’s that.” She suddenly felt self-conscious. “Is the offer of driving me around in your truck still open?”

He kissed her on the forehead. “Let’s go, Detective.”

Ellis Cooper guessed that Abigail was trying to picture the party at his house the day her husband was killed. She stood near the gate that opened into the woods. Although she had to be tired and in pain from that morning’s confrontation, she looked focused and alert.

Owen was another matter. Ellis had no idea what he was thinking.

He pointed his walking stick at an arborvitae. “This wasn’t here seven years ago. An old maple was here. It was struck by lightning, and I had to have it removed.”

“I remember that maple,” Owen said. “Doe and I used to climb it as kids.”

Ellis tried not to show his awkwardness at Owen’s mention of his early childhood there. Throughout the gardens, there were still Garrison touches, reminders of pretty Doe’s presence. Ellis had preserved what pleased him, what meant something to him and his own memories.

He decided to ignore his neighbor’s remark and went on. “I’ve added more plants and trees and changed things around since the party. A garden’s always a work in progress. It’s never finished.”

Abigail seized on his comment. “But you’re looking forward to starting fresh somewhere else?”

“Yes, absolutely.” He refused to admit a contradiction. “I’m just tinkering here at this point.”

“I think I’d like tinkering.” She ran her fingers over the gate latch, giving no sign that her bandaged forearm hurt. “Did many of your guests that day use the gate to come and go?”

“None that I remember. I wasn’t paying that close attention.”

“Maybe some were tempted to take a walk on one of the hiking trails,” she said.

Ellis shrugged. “Perhaps.” He shifted his attention to Owen. “What’s this all about?”

But Abigail moved on toward the garden shed, and Owen didn’t answer, instead motioning to Ellis that they might as well follow her. Their take-charge manner irritated him. They were on his property.

Well, his brother’s property.

They came to an old cedar-wood swing, a true treasure that hung from a massive red oak tree. Abigail gave the swing a little push. “Must be a nice spot to sit and read a book.”

“I have very little time to read,” Ellis said stiffly.

“I love to read. Helps keep me sane.”

“My sister used to read here.” Owen touched the chain holding the swing to a thick branch. “She must have read Anne of Green Gables a dozen times.”

Abigail’s tight control faltered. “I’m sorry to remind you-”

“Don’t be. It’s a good memory.”

When Owen smiled at her, Ellis was taken aback by the affection he saw. The physical attraction. He’d never anticipated a bond forming between Owen Garrison and Abigail Browning. What would Jason say? And Grace. Despite her protestations, she’d always believed Owen was there for the taking. He’d had fleeting relationships but there’d never been anyone with any threat of permanence. It was obvious to Ellis that so long as Owen was available, Grace would assume she could have him if she wanted him.

Ellis quickly returned to the subject at hand. “Most of my guests at the party stayed over by the patio. Some used the steps to go down to the water and check out the cliffs-”

Abigail moved away from the swing, past a mass planting of pink and white astilbes. “Did you turn over all the pictures you took that day to the police?”

“Of course. I didn’t take many myself, but I had disposable cameras available for guests. Some snapped pictures and left the cameras. I turned them all over to the police-voluntarily. They didn’t have to ask. I’m quite sure they were of no help whatsoever in their investigation. I wish they had been.”

“Was Mattie here taking pictures?”

“I didn’t hire him to, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What about on his own?”

“He could have been. Abigail, please-what’s this all about?”

She gave him a quick smile. “I know I’m asking a lot of questions. Something’s going on around here, and it obviously involves me.” She came to the shed. “Mind if I take a look inside?”

“Of course not, but-”

“Don’t let us keep you from your dinner.”

Ellis sighed, resigned to the intrusion. “I don’t mind. You’re welcome to join us.”

Jason, Grace and Linc were in his kitchen. They were to have dinner together and discuss what was going on with their yardman and Chris Browning’s widow-John March’s daughter. If word of the attack on Abigail that morning reached the media-and Jason was convinced it would-then all bets were off concerning Grace’s appointment. A cold murder case of a friend was a difficult enough public-relations hurdle. But a hot, immediate investigation would be impossible. Ellis had counseled enough Washington types to know her appointment would get pulled at that kind of whiff of scandal. They’d find a graceful way out, but they’d be done with it. She’d worked hard and developed a solid reputation for her expertise in international affairs but none of that would matter.

Owen stepped in front of Abigail and unlatched the shed door, but she went in first. As she moved, Ellis noticed the weapon under her lightweight jacket. He didn’t blame her. After that morning, he wouldn’t take any chances, either. He followed them inside, more bored than irritated.

“I keep my garden supplies in here,” he said. “Mattie’s in and out all day when he’s working, but-”

Abigail put up a hand. “Hang on.”

She drew her weapon. Owen, right behind her, said nothing, as he followed her through the garden materials back to a stack of lobster pots.