Читать интересную книгу Kill and Tell - Linda Howard

Whatever his thoughts, she couldn't read them on his face. "You don't have to actually view the body," he explained. "The medical examiner's office uses videotape for identification purposes. It's easier on families."

Evidently, he thought the prospect of the morgue, of viewing her father's body, had gotten to her as much as the heat and humidity. "I'm a nurse," she heard herself saying. "The sight of a body isn't likely to make me go to pieces, but still—" Still, she was glad it would be on videotape. He put his hand on her arm again, cupping her elbow in an old-fashioned gesture. "Then we might as well get it over with, hadn't we?"

Chapter 7

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Dr. Pargannas, the assistant medical examiner, slid the cassette into the VCR. While Karen watched the small television screen, Marc watched her. It wasn't a hardship; her profile was delicate and clear-cut, completely feminine. Viewed from the side, her mouth looked tender and tremulous. He settled back, his lids lowering over his eyes as he studied her, analyzing her as intently as if she were the prime suspect in a murder.

Dr. Pargannas spoke quietly to her. Marc knew the drill, so he didn't bother listening. Sometimes shaken family members needed to be prepared, bolstered, for what they were about to see. Miss Whitlaw squared her shoulders and in her cool, calm voice said, "I'm ready." No squeamishness about her, no sir. He gave a mental shrug. Of course, she wasn't squeamish; she couldn't be, and do her job. He'd bet she was a real treasure in an emergency, but he had doubts about her bedside manner afterward. He'd been a patient in a hospital twice, both times courtesy of the job, and he thought it must be a hospital rule that one nurse per shift, per floor, had to be a coldhearted bitch. Maybe Miss Whitlaw wasn't a bitch, but he sure hadn't seen any signs of warmth in her. He wouldn't want her jabbing needles into his ass. No doubt about it, though, she turned him on, with those dark bedroom eyes and that deceptively tender mouth. He shouldn't have touched her, but hell, he couldn't let her pass out at his feet. So he had held her against him, supported her, felt the softness of her body under his hands, smelled the sweet musk of her skin—and he wanted her. He didn't know if there was any passion in her at all, but he'd sure like to get her in bed and find out.

Get your mind out of her pants and back on business, Chastain, he chided himself. This wasn't the time or the place for horny thoughts, and besides, he was getting hard thinking about it. Dr. Pargannas clicked on the tape, and the victim's pallid, waxy face filled the screen. If he hadn't been watching Miss Whitlaw so closely, Marc would have missed her reaction. He saw the barely perceptible flinch, quickly controlled, and her graceful hands twisted together in her lap. "Yes, that's my father," she said, still calm, but her knuckles were white. Marc looked from those betraying hands to her calm face, and the shock was like a slap in the face. Abruptly all the little details clicked into place. God, how could he have missed it? He felt like a fool, because he should have seen it from the beginning. His gaze sharpened as he studied her. No, she wasn't as untouched by this as she wanted to be. He had noticed in his office that every time her composure cracked, she would quickly recover, her shoulders squaring, her chin going up. She didn't like being out of control, and she definitely wouldn't like breaking down in front of strangers, but suddenly he knew she was far from being unfeeling.

Maybe she felt too much. His gaze went again to her hands, locked together as she literally held herself in a tight grip. Maybe she had learned to protect herself by pretending she didn't care, by holding people at a distance so she wouldn't be hurt. In a flash of insight, he thought she must be lonely, aching with grief, but at some time in her life she had learned to hide behind a mask of unconcern, maybe when her father had walked out on his wife and daughter. Kids learned to act tough even when they were terrified inside. If he read the signs right, she was just trying to hold herself together right now but would cry her eyes out when she was alone.

That wasn't good. A woman needed a shoulder to cry on. In this case, a man's shoulder. His, to be specific.

His reluctant sexual attraction suddenly coalesced into something much sharper, more urgent, and this time he didn't even try to talk himself out of it.

Without conceit, Marc knew he was a damn good cop. He made his living taking snippets of information and piecing them together to form a picture. His instincts were usually on target, but in this case he'd let a few misconceptions get in the way, and she had picked up on his initial hostility. Hell, if he was right about her, she was so sensitive she had probably felt blasted by his attitude. She had reacted, typically, by pulling even deeper inside herself. To get her to trust him now, and he fully intended to, he would have to overcome not just her normal wariness but her protective reaction to his wrong impression and his initial coolness.

But he wanted her, and the wanting increased every time he looked at her, every time she breathed. Getting her was something else; doing it would take all his skill. She was skittish and, given her father's example, probably didn't trust men very much. Still, there had never been a woman he'd wanted whom he hadn't gotten, and he had no intention of letting Miss Karen Whitlaw be the exception. Marc had two big advantages when dealing with women. First of all, he respected their differences from men, and whenever he became involved with a woman, he devoted himself to discovering what she needed. Of course, the needs varied from woman to woman, but for the most part they all wanted the attention and caring that said they were important to him. When Marc was with a woman, he was hers; it was that simple. He gave each one the respect of fidelity while their affair lasted, he learned their moods and quirks, and he lavished them with attention—in short, babying them. He loved doing it, loved seeing a woman glow with happiness.

Given her background, he thought Karen was desperately in need of babying. She had spent her life being a tough little soldier, and she deserved the chance to relax, to let someone take care of her for a change. He was just the man for the job.

His second big advantage was that he was both ruthless and relentless. He would have to move fast, because she wouldn't be here long, probably no more than a couple of days.

He didn't have time for a leisurely seduction, disguised as dinner and dancing, stretched out over several weeks. She had a job and a home to return to, and unless he forced the issue before she left, she wouldn't have any reason for continuing the relationship.

He had no doubt there would be a relationship. He was absolutely certain, more certain than he had ever been before. The shock he had felt a moment before had gone all the way through him, deep into his bones. And he was, suddenly, uneasy in a way he had never been before, because having a woman had never before felt this important, this necessary .

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.

Though she hadn't seen Dexter in several years, she had recognized him immediately, without a single doubt. His hair had grayed more, but his face, which should have been craggier, had been smoothed by death. She had seen that before, as if the end of life erased some of the lines it had worn into the flesh, giving death a peaceful mien. His broken nose hadn't changed, still listing slightly to the right. That was his jaw, long and narrow, and the straight line of his brows. There were the deep-set eyes and high cheekbones she had inherited, as well as the tapering fingers.