Sighs Matter (17 page)

Claire closed her eyes. It was not possible, made no sense at all, but she couldn’t ignore reality. Denial wouldn’t get anybody anywhere.

“Actually, I have,” she said quietly. “Adam.”

“Dr. Dickbreath?” he snorted. “Tell me why?”

She averted her eyes. “Because he asked me to marry him, and I turned him down.”

Congenital
Very, very friendly.

Taylor stared at Claire, her remark scattering his brains like beans in a blender.

“He asked you to marry him.” He squeezed her hand, just to make sure it was still there.

“Yes.”

“But you turned him down.”

“Yes.”

“And he got pissed.” He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles, enjoying the softness of her skin—and the fact he was the one holding her hand and not . . .

“Enough to want to hurt you?
Poison
you? That’s pretty radical, even for Dr. Numbnuts.”

She relaxed back against the pillow. Closing her eyes for a moment, she said, “I’m probably being unfair, maybe jumping to conclusions, but I’ve recently come to suspect he may be capable of violent behavior, when he feels provoked.”

Images, words, gut instincts, experience . . . all clicked and snapped inside his skull. “Thursby’s the one who assaulted that kid you were talking about, isn’t he.”

“I didn’t say that.”

She didn’t have to. Her eyes told the truth even if her words were designed to protect her patient’s rights and privacy.

“He still doesn’t know I’m a cop, right?”

“I haven’t said any—”

“Claire!” At the sound of Thursby’s voice behind him, Taylor sat straight up and twisted in his chair.

In the dim light of the room, the two men locked gazes.

Thursby blinked and slid his eyes away, hurrying to the other side of Claire’s bed. He fumbled for her free hand, but the IV she was hooked up to made things difficult, so he shoved his hands in his pockets.

Glaring at Taylor, he said, “Would you kindly excuse us, McKennitt?”

“No.” Taylor settled back into his chair, Claire’s hand still resting comfortably in his.

Obviously flustered, Thursby said, “I’d like a private word with Claire.”

Taylor shrugged. “Take a number, pal. I had first d-d-d-d-d-dibs.”

Adam eyed Taylor, but said nothing.

“Listen,” Taylor said. “The tox report says somebody laced Claire’s chocolate with narcotine. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Thursby’s sharp gray eyes narrowed. “No, I wouldn’t.” He turned his attention to Claire. “Is that what it was? Narcotine?”

She nodded.

“Dear God,” he whispered. “If you hadn’t gotten the antidote in time . . .” His voice trailed off and he looked with pitiful eyes at Claire. “I’m sorry. It . . . must have been painful.”

Taylor watched Thursby like a hawk watches a rat. “You know a guy by the name of Ramon Sierra, aka Paul Fuentes?”

Thursby’s gaze slid from Claire to Taylor.

“Who?”

“He’s the guy who gave Claire the poison. Used the name Ramon Sierra, but the cops lifted a fingerprint from the bag he’d used to carry it. Apparently, this Fuentes has a long criminal record.”

“Is that a surprise?” Thursby laughed. “I guess anybody who’d try to poison someone would probably be the criminal type, now wouldn’t he.”

“So, you know him, or what?”

“Hell no, I don’t know him.”

“Taylor,” Claire said softly. “I’d like to talk to Adam privately.” Her cool fingers curled around his palm as she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Please?”

“I think I should stay,” he mumbled.

“Just for a minute.”

Reaching for the call button, he placed it in her hand. “I’ll be right outside the door.”

He wanted to kiss her—right in front of Thursby—but that would be so juvenile.

Bending, he placed a soft kiss on her mouth.

Hey, he could behave like an immature jerk if the situation called for it.

He felt Thursby’s gaze on his back all the way to the door. Just as it closed behind him, a wild-eyed Aunt Sadie rushed off the elevator, nearly knocking him down.

“Where is she?” she choked. “Is she all right? Who did this horrible thing to her?”

A heartbeat later, Betsy stepped out of the other elevator, Soldier right behind her. Taylor moved the whole herd into a small waiting room across the hall, and explained what had happened.

“But is she all right?” This from Betsy, who was holding her giant tummy with both hands. “Was there any permanent—”

“No, not at all,” he assured her. “She received the antidote in time, and can go home tomorrow. They tell me she should feel much better within just a few hours.”

“Thank God,” Sadie sobbed, holding a handkerchief to her swollen eyes. Betsy slipped her arm around the old lady and gave her a gentle hug.

Taylor heard Claire’s door open, so he checked the hallway. Thursby was stomping down the corridor like an unhappy ogre. Good.

“Why don’t you two go on in and see Claire,” he said to the women, “while I have a word with my brother.”

Running in that hour before dawn always made Taylor feel like he was the only living man on the planet. Before him stretched a dark ribbon of road, his to conquer. It rose in places to challenge him, curved to entice him, flattened to let him catch his breath. The steady rhythm of his footfalls changed depending on the surface. Asphalt smacked the bottom of his feet, spiked blades of grass on soft earth absorbed the sound, making him feel like he was flying through the stratosphere. The brittle crunch of gravel, when he happened upon it, annoyed him, and he hurried to find a smoother, more eloquent voice to keep him company.

Running before dawn gave his brain a chance to unfuzz after a hard sleep, or revive when rest had eluded him. His mind worked best just after a run, his lungs having pumped out inertia, sucked in new energy for the menial or monumental tasks that lay ahead.

Running before dawn let him smell the leftover night, damp from the sea, and briny. The fragrance of wood chips in a rose garden reached him, evoking the memory of when he’d been a kid and pushed open the heavy lid of his mother’s old hope chest, to breathe the mellow scent of cedar for the first time.

Running before dawn, pain and pounding fell away until only movement remained.

He licked his lips, salty from his own sweat, salty like Claire’s kiss when she cried. He licked his lips again, because it brought her there with him, next to him, inside him.

Grabbing the square of towel stuffed in his waistband, he wiped his face and neck, running, and running, the sound of his breathing like a saw through ice.

He’d posted a police officer outside Claire’s hospital room; she was safe and would stay that way until they sorted this mess out. It pissed him off that he couldn’t approach Thursby directly. If the man
was
involved, knowing the cops were sniffing around would blow everything. The creep would go to ground and they’d lose him. With no hard evidence, they had nothing to hand the DA.

When he reached Harbor Street, Taylor made a sharp left, slowing his pace. One twenty-seven was a two-story white clapboard three doors up on his right. Dark, like all the other houses in the neighborhood, like all the other houses in Port Henry at four in the morning.

Across the street and down, somebody’s dog launched into a high-pitched yap fest. Little dog, from the sound of it. Good alarm system, irritating all the same.

In front of Taylor, a streetlamp bathed the pavement with a bright circle of light. Skirting it, he approached the property. No car in the driveway. Staying in the shadows of the tall boxwood hedge lining the drive, he eased himself toward the garage. No window on the door.

Crouching, he examined the cement driveway for tire tread, but it was still too dark to make anything out. He had a penlight in his fanny pack but wouldn’t use it until he was ready to leave.

The house was leased, but the interesting thing was, the lease was month-to-month at Thursby’s request. Not exactly the kind of thing a man would do if he expected to bring his two kids to live with him, as Claire had mentioned. And why lease? Why not buy? The good doctor seemed to have plenty of money.

Silently, he approached the kitchen door. Working quickly, he unzipped his fanny pack, removed the powder and brush and dusted the door handle and around the frame, using tape to pick up four latent prints. Of course, no evidence he collected could be taken to court, but they might get a lead on the guy’s real name—if his prints were in the database. According to the report Taylor received late last night from the Portland PD, Adam Thursby had indeed been a highly respected orthopedic surgeon, well known in his field, and well loved in the community—right up until the day he died seven years ago at the age of ninety-one.

It had been three days since Claire was poisoned. Her stomach muscles weren’t sore anymore, her stamina was beginning to return, and she had eaten a full meal at dinner—always a good sign.

She glanced at the bedside clock. Ten-forty
P.M
. Tomorrow, she and Betsy would hit the department stores, and she’d need to be fully recovered in order to ooh and ahh over tiny pink tigers, baby blue elephants, yellow duckies, and white lace bonnets.

Curling in on herself, she fluffed her pillow and relaxed into the soft mattress, wishing she wasn’t alone in her bed. Ever since awakening in the hospital with Taylor beside her, holding her hand, she’d developed a deep-rooted yearning for him.

Maybe she was getting used to his being around, or maybe, as Betsy had warned, he was simply wearing her down. Either way, he’d become important to her in the way she’d feared he would, and now she didn’t know what to do about it, about him.

But if he was here right now, the way she was feeling right now, right now would be the right time for—

The knock on her bedroom door stirred her from her thoughts. “Aunt Sadie? Come in.”

“Not Aunt Sadie,” came the husky reply. “Not even close. Can I still come in?”

Claire’s heart skittered around inside her chest and her throat tightened. He was here, at her bedroom door. Even though her common sense was quick to insist that nothing really would happen between them, her hormones—open-ended and ready for anything—jumped into a happy dance of astonishing proportions.

She held her breath while the doorknob turned and the door squeaked open. He had a sheepish grin on his face, and his head was slightly bowed as though he was a kid about to make up some excuse for being caught where he shouldn’t be.

“Aunt Sadie let me in,” he said, closing the door behind him. “In fact, when she saw me, she practically grabbed my collar and yanked me inside.” He cocked his head. “She didn’t say it in so many words, but I think she likes me.” He grinned, and by the light of the moon shimmering through the open window, Claire had to admit Aunt Sadie knew a good thing when she saw it.

He wore jeans and a black shirt under a short leather jacket. His lids were a little sleepy and he looked like he could use a shave.

Somehow, all the air in the room vanished, and Claire had trouble breathing. Her heart
thrum-thumped
rapidly against her ribs.

She felt her body begin to respond, and it was all she could do not to slide down in the bed, slip off her nightgown, and invite him to put his hands all over her bare skin.

“Why are you here?” she choked. “Have you made any headway on the case?”

Moving to the side of the bed, he took off his jacket and placed it on the back of her dressing table chair. Then he sat and began casually taking off his shoes. Her eyes followed his every move, but she was afraid to ask him what he was doing—afraid he wanted to spend the night with her, even more afraid he didn’t.

“Got some prints we’re checking out,” he said, slipping off his shoulder holster and setting it on her dresser. “I can’t tell you much right now. I’m hoping that tomorrow, we’ll have some answers.” Emptying his pockets, he set his wallet, comb, loose change, and handcuffs next to his weapon.

Why the sight of those items on her dresser made her insides quiver, she couldn’t say.

“To answer your first question,” he said, “I’m here to protect you.” Yanking his shirt free of his waistband, never taking his eyes from hers, he began unbuttoning it.

“There’s a guest bedroom across the hall.” Amazing. She managed to say the words without mumbling or stuttering.

He removed his shirt and her mouth went dry. It turned to the Sahara when he unbuckled his belt.

“I’m not staying in the guest room,” he murmured, sliding down the zipper of his jeans. In five long seconds, he was naked, the tanned perfection of his body making her hormones not only jump, but laugh and pound on the door, demanding to come out and play.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he said, walking toward the bed. “Not if you don’t want to, and as cajoling guy-speak as that sounds, I mean it. I just want to hold you, Claire.” He stood next to the bed, waiting. “I need to. Can you understand that?”

Maybe it was the look in his eyes, maybe the set of his jaw, or soft curve of his lower lip. Maybe it was the note of yearning in his voice—the same yearning she felt, if she was being honest with herself—that finally shattered her resolve.