Linda Howard - Kill and Tell

He didn't know how they would work out the details, with her in Ohio and him in Louisiana, but they could settle all that later. The most important thing right now was to stake his claim, and to do that he had to win her trust.

Beginning now, he thought, flicking a glance from her hands to her composed expression, then to the television screen. Despite her immediate identification of her father, Dr. Pargannas was painstakingly showing her the "Semper fi" tattoo and other identifying marks, perhaps wanting to make certain she hadn't spoken hastily, perhaps because Marc had been lost in his thoughts and hadn't moved to end the session. He swore silently to himself; he should have stopped this the second she spoke.

"Thanks, Doc," he said now, putting one hand on the back of her chair and bracing the other on the table in front of her, effectively embracing her without touching her. He saw her stiffen a little, an instinctive reaction to the subtle possessiveness of his position, but she was too upset to be consciously aware of what he had just done. Those somber dark eyes glanced at him, then quickly averted when they made eye contact, but not before he saw the relief in them.

She hid it well, managing to shift so she could slide out of the chair away from him, standing and saying briskly, "What do I have to do now?"

"Sign some papers so we can release the body," Dr. Pargannas replied, then blinked at the narrow look Marc gave him. "Ah… that is, your father's remains." The doctor seemed bewildered; if she had been more visibly upset, he could have understood such tact, but he plainly considered it a waste of time with such a businesslike woman.

Marc had stood when she did. Noting the tension in her shoulders, he quietly said, "I'll call a funeral home for you, then take you to a couple of small cemeteries so you can pick out a plot—if that's what you want?"

"Yes, thank you," she said quickly.

"Okay, we'll get the paperwork wrapped up here. Doctor?" Damn, those dark eyes of hers were really getting to him, twisting his guts into knots. He wanted to cradle her, hold her close so she would know she wasn't alone in this, but it was too soon; such a blatant move would panic her. He had to keep it low-key until she relaxed enough with him.

Instead, he put his hand on the small of her back, feeling her warmth through her dress, knowing the heat of his hand on such a sensitive area would comfort her. On a normal day, she would probably jump away and give him a frosty look, but this wasn't a normal day. She was tired, heat-stressed, and was going through an emotional wringer. She was too tense even to notice the touch, except perhaps to feel relief that he was there and that he was helping her.

Dr. Pargannas was staring bemusedly at him. "Hmm? Oh—of course. Take Miss Whitlaw to my office, and I'll be there in a minute. Would either of you like a cup of coffee?" Marc felt Karen's small shudder at the thought. "I'll get us something cold from the drink machine," he said as he ushered her out of the conference room and into the cramped, cluttered office across the hall. Thirty minutes later, he was walking her back to the car. The second soft drink had steadied her once again, but the effects of the sugar would wear off soon; she needed food. He thought for a second. A leisurely sit-down meal in a cool restaurant would be best, but likely she would balk at the idea. Not only would she consider it an intolerable delay when they had so much to do, but the surroundings would make her feel as if they were on a date. Less beneficial but more likely to be accepted would be if he picked up something in a drive-through and they ate as he drove.

"Would you mind if we got something to eat?" he asked in an easy tone. "I didn't get a chance to eat lunch." That was a lie, but so what, if it accomplished his purpose. In retrospect, he was angry with himself for missing the signs when she first walked into his office. She was brittle with stress, on the verge of shattering, and only her self-discipline held her together. He wanted to kick his own ass; he usually read people better than that.

"Eat?" Her tone was vague, as if she had only the faintest idea what the word meant. Then she visibly shook herself and said, "Of course, I don't mind."

"We'll pick up something from a drive-through. Do you like Mexican, hamburgers, fried chicken, red beans and rice, pizza—"

"Mexican is fine," she said, because it was the first thing he had listed. A cop knew every restaurant in town, and he drove to a tiny, ramshackle place that had once been a barbecue hut. There were no tables inside, just the drive-up window through which the owner dispensed tasty burritos and enchiladas. Soon they were on their way again, and he watched the color seep into her face as she slowly chewed on a burrito.

"How long is the drive?" she asked.

"About half an hour, in traffic." A half-smile quirked the corners of his mouth. "I could put the blue light on the dash, but I try not to use it unless I'm hungry, or really need a bathroom." A startled little laugh spurted out of her. She covered her mouth with her hand, blinking as if she couldn't believe he'd actually joked with her, and she had laughed in any case. Those big dark eyes were owlish with surprise.

Because of those eyes, he decided to push it a little further. "You'll notice that I cleaned up my language in deference to you, instead of saying something about really needing to take a piss." She laughed again and looked just as startled as she had the first time. "Ah… yes, I noticed," she managed to say. "Thank you."

Marc veiled his satisfaction. That harmless, teasing little exchange had firmly shifted their relationship from strictly business to subtly personal, relaxing her. She needed to relax; from the looks of her, she needed to sleep . When she had finished eating the burrito, he took the wrapper from her, brushing her fingers in the process, and stuffed it in the bag with his own discarded wrapper. "Why don't you lean back and close your eyes until we get there?"

"I'm afraid I'll go to sleep if I do." She watched the traffic. "I work third shift, so I—" She stopped, and he continued the sentence. "So you hadn't had more than a couple of hours' sleep when I called." That explained a lot. She was truly exhausted.

"I returned your call when I got home, but it was too early for you to be in."

"Didn't the voice mail pick up?"

She shook her head. "No, and I let it ring for a long time."

He smothered a curse and reached for his cellular phone, jabbing in a number with his thumb. Karen watched nervously; she constantly saw patients who had been in car accidents because their attention wandered while talking on the phone while they were driving. Detective Chastain kept his eye on the traffic and his left hand firm on the wheel. He was a very good driver, she thought, his driving style so smooth she scarcely noticed how fast they were moving.

He broke the connection with another jab of his thumb. "Voice mail isn't working. Sorry about that. I'll check into it when we get back; a detective can't afford to be unreachable. In the meantime, grab a nap if you want. I'll wake you up when we get there."

She wanted to refuse, but she was too tired, and the temptation too irresistible. She leaned her head back on the headrest of the seat and closed her eyes against the late-afternoon sun, which was glaring through the windshield straight into her eyes. Cold air poured out of the air-conditioning vents, though, washing over her wrists and throat, and she felt her tight muscles slowly ease. Sleep evaded her, but still it felt good to rest. Though she had been braced to endure the identification process, she hadn't expected it to be so difficult. Surely the years of separation and the lifetime of desertion and broken promises should have given her as much emotional detachment as if she had been identifying, say, a neighbor. It hadn't worked that way.