Bodyguard/Husband (8 page)

“So you knew him in high school, and you
have
dated him.”

“It wasn’t a date.” She crossed her arms and glared at him, noticing out of the corner of her eye that Mrs. Ross had stepped off her porch onto the sidewalk, probably trying to hear better.

“When I said I needed the name of every man, I meant
every
man,” he said tightly, the pending storm back in his expression as he rolled his mug between his palms. “You don’t decide whether to give me the name. You give it to me and I’ll decide.”

She blew her breath out in an exasperated sigh. “Does that include Sunday school teachers? Baggers at the grocery store? People I smile at on the street? Don’t you understand? This is a close-knit community. I know everybody.”

Jack scowled. “Be reasonable, Holly. But don’t be careless. It could be anybody.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Okay.”

“And you don’t go anywhere without me. Is that perfectly clear?”

“Yes, sir. But speaking of clear, the clear message your body language and the look on your face are
sending is that you’re about to chew me up and spit me out,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips. “People are watching.”

With an obvious effort, Jack relaxed his features and leaned over and kissed her brow.

She closed her eyes, wishing he would stop doing that. The feel of his firm-yet-gentle kiss was becoming altogether too familiar, too comforting.

“Is this better?” he whispered against her ear, sending shivers down her spine.

“Not really,” she muttered as he pulled away.

“Holly. What I do is unusual. When I investigate an unsolved crime, the evidence is already cold. I don’t have leads. I don’t have clues. I don’t have fresh victims or uncontaminated evidence. I can’t work forward, so I have to work backward. In my world, everyone is a suspect until proven innocent. It’s how I have to work.”

She felt Mrs. Ross’s interested gaze still on them. “If everyone in town is a suspect, does that include me?”

Jack didn’t take his eyes off her. “You seem to have airtight alibis for the time of each death.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” she drawled, noticing he hadn’t really answered her question.

“Look. If I’m going to be able to protect you, you have to trust me. I know what I’m doing. But you have to do what I say and you have to stick with me.”

The sunlight picked up highlights in his black hair and played off the planes of his face, somehow making him look less official, more approachable.

She believed he could protect her. His determined jawline, the glacial gray of his eyes, the strength of his fingers wrapped around the mug—all reassured her. He
had a quiet control that she had fought all her life to attain. The fragile thread of determination that had kept her going since her parents’ deaths was unraveling. If she lost that and had nothing to replace it, she was afraid she’d fall apart.

Perversely, she wondered if there was anything or anyone that could melt Jack’s icy control. Eyeing him narrowly, she baited him. “You always get your man. Do you always rescue the damsel, too?”

His head jerked slightly as if he’d heard a shot or dodged a blow. Recovering instantly, he raised one brow and looked down at her feet, then let his gaze travel up her legs, past her running shorts and her sports bra, all the way up to meet her gaze. She saw a look in his eyes that disturbed and excited her.

A look of hunger.

She folded her arms over her Lycra-clad breasts, suddenly feeling exposed. Her nipples tightened and she licked dry lips, forgetting her question, until it occurred to her that that was precisely his intent.

She shook off the haze of desire and straightened, reminding herself of where they were. Mrs. Ross probably couldn’t wait to call all her friends to tell them that Holly’s new husband was undressing her with his eyes in the middle of the street.

“This is not a game, Holly. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

He looped his arm around her, his hand resting on the curve of her hip. “Let’s go inside. We’ve got an appointment with your uncle in forty-five minutes.”

Knowing that every move they made was destined to be the subject of coffee-break conversations all over town, she gently but firmly slid his hand up to her waist.

She felt a rumble in his chest that could have been a soft chuckle.

“Watch how you act in public, Jack. This is a conservative town, and, like I told you, people are watching.”

Jack leaned over and put his lips near her ear. “If we’re lucky, that includes the killer.”

Chapter Four

“The killer is stocking his love nest.” Jack stood in the garage, talking to Decker on his cell phone.

“That’s what it sounds like. Have you talked to Eric?”

“Nope. I left a message on his voice mail. Here’s the rest of the list.” Jack read off the disturbing items that Holly had listed as missing: a ragged stuffed dog from her childhood, Brad’s class ring, which she’d worn on a chain around her neck all through high school, a ruffled pillow from her bed, a makeup kit. And that was just about half of the list. Combine these with her favorite cup and the nightgown that he was sure from her reaction was a fancy, revealing one, and anyone would draw the same conclusion. A deep, nauseated shudder rippled through him. He had to catch this bastard before he laid one hand on Holly. “When can Baldwyn get to these?”

“He’s on a missing-child case right now, and you know how he is when he’s working. But he ordered in some food earlier. That means he may come up for air soon.”

“Tell him I want to know which of Holly’s possessions the UnSub’s going after next. And when.”

“How soon do you need this? Like, yesterday?”

Jack laughed without humor. “Sooner. Now, what do you have on my suspects?”

“Let’s see. There was nothing on the Baptist preacher, but Peyton, your vic’s fiancé, took out a substantial insurance policy on himself shortly before he disappeared. Holly is the beneficiary. Of course, it hasn’t paid out yet because Peyton is still listed as missing. The insurance salesman who sold it to him was Earl Isley. He wrote her husband’s life insurance, too.”

“Well, Holly didn’t kill them for the insurance. So, you think Isley?”

“Maybe he plans on marrying into that money. It’s been done before. The two policies together are seven figures.”

Jack filed away that information. “What about Sheffield?”

“Now,
he’s
interesting. Donald Sheffield is currently under a restraining order in Jackson. Seems he was a little too persistent with a young woman who tried to break up with him. Wouldn’t leave her alone. Got physical.”

Jack’s pulse hammered in his temple. This could be his first real lead. “A restraining order. That’s the guy Holly said tried to turn a couple of dates into a commitment.”

“You want the locals to pick him up for questioning?”

“Yes. And I want to be there. Have them notify me when he’s coming in. And thanks for the quick work.”

“Thank Nat,” Decker said. “She worked all night.”

Jack smiled. Natasha Rudolph was, like all the
members of their elite team, the best at what she did. And considering what Nat did with computers, Jack never ever wanted to find himself on her bad side. He had no doubt that with a few keystrokes, she could wipe out all traces of his existence.

“Tell her thanks, and give her two more to check out—Robert Winger and Stanley Hanks.”

“I’ll tell Nat to get right on it. Now, I’ve arranged with the local field office to check in with you daily via your cell phone. And you’ve got their number if you need assistance. And remember, I can be there within a few hours.”

“I know.”

Decker’s voice took on a new timbre, the tone of friendship. “Take care of yourself, Ice Man. I’ll see you in a day or two.”

Jack nodded his appreciation, even though his boss couldn’t see him. “Make sure the locals understand how important it is that they call me about Sheffield. He sounds like a classic stalking personality. He could be our guy.”

U
NCLE
V
IRGIL LAID OUT
the three notes like velvet jewel cases in front of Jack. Holly sat to one side of her uncle’s ancient desk and refused to look at the plastic-bagged pieces of paper. She’d spent enough time staring at them. Their words were carved like surgical scars on her heart. Their presence made the unthinkable a reality.

Jack picked up one of the notes and studied it. He looked at the front, the back, held it up to the light and peered through it. He turned it upside down and stared at it, then righted it and stared some more.

Holly was fascinated. He was totally focused on the
piece of paper, his dark brows furrowed, his eyes narrowed. He carried it to the window, holding the plastic bag against the glass, as if the light shining through the paper could reveal a secret message or code.

His long fingers splayed against the window pane promised strength and gentleness at the same time. She’d known the man less than twenty-four hours and the touch of those fingers was already familiar to her.

She shifted uncomfortably. The day had grown warm. Uncle Virgil’s air conditioner was older than she was, and since it was only June, her parsimonious great-uncle wouldn’t even contemplate turning it on for another month.

Jack, of course, looked cool as the proverbial cucumber. The only wrinkles in his crisp white shirt were where he’d rolled up the sleeves, baring sinewy forearms with a light dusting of dark hair.

Forcing herself to stop ogling him like a teenager, she concentrated on what he was doing. He held up the first note, the one that had come after Brad died.

“‘Dear Holly,’” he read aloud. “‘Mere words cannot express my sorrow for your loss. Believe ye will not see him any more about the world with his divine regard! For all was as I say, and now the man lies as he lay once, breast to breast with God.’”

Taking a small notebook from his shirt pocket, he jotted notes. “How soon did you receive this after your husband’s death?”

“I’m not sure. Within a few days. It was in with a stack of sympathy cards.”

“Was it in an envelope?”

“I don’t think so.” Holly thought about those awful days after Brad died. “I wasn’t paying much attention.”

“And you don’t recognize the handwriting?”

She shook her head. “It’s so plain.”

“Block printing. Most of the time it’s hard to analyze.” Jack took the note back over to the table. “Tell me how he died.”

“O’Hara—” Uncle Virgil leaned forward “—you got all that info. Holly don’t need to be put through this again.”

“Sir, as a law enforcement officer yourself, I’m sure you can appreciate the importance of a firsthand account from someone close to the victim. I thought we understood that I was to be given complete cooperation.”

The two men faced off for a moment, and Holly could feel the battle of wills. Two strong, stubborn men, each with his own way of doing things. Each in his own way protecting her. The sight gave her a warm feeling, a safe feeling—a feeling she hadn’t felt many times in her life.

“It’s okay, Uncle Virgil—” Holly began as the door opened.

“Chief.” It was Theodore “T-Bone” Polk, one of her uncle’s detectives. “Oh, hi, Miss Holly,” he said, his weathered face turning red. “S’cuse me, but Miss Emma Thompson run into a telephone pole again. This time over at Cherry and Main.”

T-Bone’s gaze lit on Jack. “This the new husband?” He frowned and spared Jack a half-inch nod. “You better be good to our little Miss Holly or you’ll have to answer to me.”

Jack nodded easily, but Holly felt him stiffen.

“I’m s’posed to be in court in Jackson in an hour. I’m already late.”

Virgil sighed. “All right, T-Bone. You get going.
I’ll take care of Miss Emma. I reckon I’m either going to have to escort her personally to the eye doctor or take that precious fifty-nine Chevy of hers away.” He looked at Jack. “This is the third telephone pole she’s hit this year.”

“Thanks, Chief. Miss Holly.” The burly detective touched an invisible hat brim. “Oh, by the way, Jeannie said she’s ready anytime to learn those new exercises.”

“Okay, T-Bone,” Holly said. “I’ll call her this week.”

T-Bone sent Jack a dismissive nod and left.

Uncle Virgil searched Holly’s face. “Holly?”

“I’ll be fine. You go ahead.” She kissed her uncle’s weathered cheek.

He nodded tentatively. “You’ll come over tonight?”

She put on a smile for him. “Of course. I’ll fix dinner, and we’ll let Aunt Bode meet Jack.”

After Virgil left, Holly looked at Jack. “He’s worried about me.”

“I know.” Jack gave a brisk nod. “Tell me about that detective who has a thing for you.”

Holly gawked at him. “What? Are you talking about T-Bone?”

“He turned bright red when he saw you. Then there was his threat.”

“T-Bone? Threat?” She thought back over what T-Bone had said and laughed. “You mean about answering to him? That’s just an expression. You’re in the south, Jack. People take family and friends seriously. And they talk like that. Surely even you know that was no threat.”

Jack didn’t crack a smile. “Has he ever asked you out? Made overtures to you?”

“T-Bone? He’s married with two kids.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Holly sighed in exasperation. “No,
dear,
he’s never asked me out. He’s older than me. He’d graduated by the time I started high school.”

“So had I.”

She stared at him. Suddenly, Jack O’Hara moved a little bit closer to her universe. He wasn’t just an FBI agent. He had a life, a past. He was thirty-two or thirty-three years old—four years older than her.

But there all resemblance between him and anyone she’d ever known ended. He was defined by his job, focused, serious, yet detached. He asked questions and filed away the answers like a computer.

“You cannot possibly think T-Bone is a suspect because he blushed. He’s always gotten embarrassed easily.”

Jack looked at her steadily.

“Oh God.” She collapsed back in her chair. “You’re going to do this to everyone I know. This is going to tear the town apart.”