Playing Dead in Dixie (3 page)

She bristled at the certainty in his voice.  What was he saying, that a nice Southern boy from a good family wouldn't be caught dead dating some Yankee bimbo like her?

"See," he added, his voice dropping to a low, smug drawl, "Steve's last two 'friends' were named Christopher and Sean."

As his words sank in, Carly's heart plummeted to her knees.

"Steve was gay," he said.  "And you're a liar."

Chapter Two

Consternation flitted across Carly Devlin's face, confirming Wes's suspicion.  "You didn't know he was gay, did you?"

She looked up at him through a thick fringe of black lashes and said nothing.  A lock of hair had slipped free of its pins, falling to coil along her cheek.  Wes thrust his hands in his pockets to foil the ridiculous urge to tuck that lock of hair behind her ear.

"You met him for the first time on the bus, right?"

Again, she said nothing, but he saw the answer in her expressive green eyes.  She looked away from him, as if aware how much she was revealing with that wary gaze.

"What'd you do, see him hit it big at the craps table?"  Using what his colleagues at the police department called his "lull-the-perp" voice, Wes stepped closer, willing her to look at him again.  "Can't blame a girl for wanting to get closer to the guy with ten grand burning a hole in his pocket."

She did look at him then, eyes flashing green fire.  "If I wanted that ten grand, I could have taken it when he gave it to me at the crash site.  No one would have ever known."

"But you let my aunt and uncle think you were closer to Steve than you were.  Why?  What's in it for you?"

She went pink again, lowering her lashes to hide her eyes.  "I could use a job.  Steve told me they own a store."

He huffed, surprised by the answer.  "You came all the way to little bitty Bangor, Georgia, for a job?  There are a whole lot more jobs in Savannah.  They're bound to pay more, too."

"I didn't want a job in a big city."

"Funny, you seem like a big city kind of girl."

"Maybe I don't want to be a big city anymore," she said.

His head was starting to ache, not entirely due to the hot sun beating down on the top of his bare head.  "Look, I don't know what kind of angle you're playing here—"

"Who says there's an angle?"  She took a step back from him, taking her body heat and her light floral scent with her.

Wes squelched the urge to close the distance between them. "Everybody has an angle, sugar."

"So, what's yours?" she asked.

"We're not talking about me."

"Maybe we should.  You said everybody has an angle—sugar.  What's yours?"  She cocked one perfect black eyebrow at him, knocking his world off kilter.

Damn, she was good-looking.  And slippery as a swamp bass.  Just when he thought he had her number, she surprised him again.

His trousers were starting to feel tight in the inseam.  Hell, his whole body felt two sizes too small.  On the day of his cousin's funeral of all days.

He was lower than a snake.

Her uplifted eyebrow forced him to answer when all he wanted to do was run as far from her as possible.  "Actually, I have a couple of angles.  I care about my aunt and uncle.  I don't like folks taking advantage of them.  And second," he added, pausing for full effect, "I'm the chief of police here in Bangor.  And we don't like con artists 'round here."

Her lips curved in a wide smile, baring straight white teeth and carving dimples in her cheeks.  "You like to throw your weight around, don't you, Chief Wes?"  Her eyes laughed at him.  "Good ol' Chief Wes, who got hammered after his senior prom and thought he saw a ghost at the old post office.  Yeah, Steve told me all about you, Chief Wes."

He hated the way she said "Chief Wes," like he was some toothless hick sheriff with a rusty old peashooter and a jailhouse full of nothing but moonshiners and chicken thieves.

He had all his teeth and his gun was a Glock 9mm, damn it.

The screen door creaked open behind him.  "Wes, what's takin' so long?"

He wiped the frown off his face and turned to face his aunt.  "Carly and I were just getting to know each other."

Carly made a soft snickering sound beside him, sending a flood of heat into his neck.

"Don't keep the girl out in the heat, honey, she's not used to it.  Carly, come on back inside.  Wes can find your things all by himself."

Ignoring the amused look Carly shot him as she walked past him toward the porch, he let out a soft litany of curses under his breath and went to his uncle's car.

In the back seat, he found a battered canvas tote, slightly larger than a gym bag.  He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Carly and Bonnie disappear inside the house.

Lingering more than a minute or two would raise suspicions, so he unzipped the bag and quickly scanned the contents. Clothes, mostly.  He wasn't much of an expert on fashion, but the stuff seemed pretty average, except a sun-warmed pair of silk panties that flowed over his fingers as he felt around the bottom of the bag.  They felt expensive.

Tucked in one corner of the bag he found a small leather change pouch, full to bursting, and unzipped it.  Atop a handful of loose change, mostly quarters, he found a large wad of bills.

He counted the bills.  Around two hundred and fifty in mostly tens and twenties, a few ones.  A few consecutive serial numbers, suggesting most of the cash came from the same place.  He memorized the first few digits; he'd check them later against the cash Carly had given his aunt.

Beyond the money, there was nothing else in the pouch.  No credit cards, no i.d.  Nothing to tell him who she really was.

Replacing the money pouch, he searched the rest of the bag, finding nothing of interest.  With a growl of frustration, he zipped up the bag, tucked it under his arm and headed back for the house.

CARLY FELT LIKE A CRIMINAL.

It wasn't just the way Wes's dark eyes followed every movement she made, as if mentally sizing her for leg irons.  It was the way Bonnie Strickland smiled at her, a sweet, teary smile utterly lacking in suspicion.  The way Floyd showed her Steve's room, going through the mementos and trophies, the certificates and yearbooks, years of a life that had passed too soon, and passed from their presence even sooner.

"He and Wes played baseball together, pitcher and catcher. Steve had a good arm.  Scouts came from all over to watch him pitch his senior year."  Floyd ran his fingers over a scuffed baseball sitting atop a pine dresser.  "He just never seemed interested in pro ball."

"He liked art better," Carly murmured, drawing on her memory of their conversation on the bus.  Steve Strickland had worked at an art gallery in Richmond.

"Art, music—he tried his hand at writing movies for a while.  Never got far with that.  He always seemed to want something more than he had."

Carly's stomach twisted slightly.  She had that in common with Steve.  Maybe that's why they'd hit it off.  Two kindred spirits, both searching for that something that would make them finally stop rambling and settle somewhere.

Carly had begun to think that "something" didn't really exist.  Life wasn't a race to the finish line.  There was no finish line, just leg after leg of the race.  Most of the time, that was fine with her.  Nice scenery, occasionally a friendly stranger to share a few miles of road with her.  Could be worse.

Could be trapped back at the starting line, watching the other runners pass her by on their way to new, exciting places.

"Wes put your things in Beth's room."  Floyd led her out into the hall and down to the next door.  Inside, she found a room decorated in pale yellow and accents of green, including a windowsill garden of jade plants and ivy.  A yellow and white quilt lay atop the double bed.  Wedding ring pattern, she thought, remembering Granny Mairi's cream and coral version of the same quilt.  Fresh white linens lay folded atop the quilt.

Everything looked homey.  Like she was part of the family.

Now she really felt like a creep.

"Floyd, I need your help in the kitchen."  Bonnie stuck her head through the doorway, flashing Carly a tear-stained smile.  "I can't reach the aluminum foil.  I was going to send Wes home with a plate for J.B."  She started to follow her husband out when she caught sight of the folded linens on the quilt.  She stepped into the room, calling over her shoulder, "Wes, why didn't you make Carly's bed for her?"

"I can do it," Carly said quickly, gently steering Bonnie away from the bed.  "You have so much to do, and you did tell me to make myself at home.  At home, I make my own bed."

Fresh tears welled in Bonnie's eyes, and she gave Carly a quick, impulsive hug before heading back to the kitchen.

Carly's heart sank to somewhere around her knees, weighted by shame.  She dropped to the edge of the bed, closing her eyes.

What had she been thinking, coming here?  Wes was right; she could have gotten a job in Savannah.  Nothing that paid well--she couldn't exactly give out her social security number, now that she'd left her purse and I.D. at the edge of the river.  Someone would have found it and added her name—her real name—to the victim's list.  Dom Manning knew she'd hopped one of the casino tour buses, since the casino security cameras would have caught it.  Agent Phillips surely knew, too.  They'd both figure her for dead.

They certainly wouldn't be looking for her in Georgia, as long as she stayed of the books.

She could still go.  Tell the Stricklands she'd been wrong to impose on their hospitality and then hitch a ride back to Savannah.  Maybe Chief Wes would drive her back there himself.

"Long day?"

She jumped at the sound of Wes's voice, her eyes flying open.  "Big lunches make me sleepy."

He leaned against the doorjamb, a lazy smile playing across his mouth, making her heart flip-flop.   "Sorry Floyd talked you into trying fried okra?"

She made a face. "I was fine until he showed me what it looked like raw.  Somebody should have told me it was hairy."

Wes chuckled.  "You should try it boiled."

Something in his expression told her she most certainly should
not
.

"It was good of you to help Bonnie out after lunch.  She enjoys having you here.  Gives her something to think about besides Steve."  The words themselves were spoken in a quiet, even tone, but Wes's dark eyes flashed a warning Carly heard loud and clear. 
Hurt my family and you'll be very sorry.

"I was thinking, you were right about Savannah.  I'm sure there are plenty of jobs there."  Carly licked her lips.  "Could you give me a ride into the city tomorrow?"

"No."

His refusal caught her by surprise.  "You'd rather I hitch a ride with some stranger, Chief Wes?"

"You're not going anywhere.  Not yet."  His voice was low and rimmed with steel.  "You put yourself into the middle of my family's grief.  You can't just run away when it gets messy."

Her throat felt tight.  "I thought you wanted me gone."

"Changed my mind."  He pushed away from the doorway, closing the distance between them in two long strides.  He stood over her, big and hard-eyed.  "I think I like you better where I can keep an eye on you.  For now, at least."

Though she bristled at his tone, she could hardly blame him for his suspicion.  He had good reason to doubt her.  Lifting her chin, she met his dark gaze.  "Am I under house arrest?"

"If I said yes, would you be good and stay put?"

She didn't bother to reply.  He already knew the answer.  She could see it in the half-smile flirting with his lips.

A shiver of pure female awareness skittered through her as he bent closer, parting those lips to speak to her in soft, intimate tones.  "I'm going to find out who you are, Carly Devlin.  I'm going to find out what you're about."

Her stomach fluttered with unease, not all of it alarm.  She forced herself to smile, to give a flirty tilt of her head and a little thrust of her breasts, tricks she'd learned long ago, when it became clear that people were more interested in what was in her bra than in her brain.  "Knock yourself out."

His eyes darkened.  "You could save us both a lot of trouble if you just came clean."

She crossed her legs, noting with satisfaction his gaze following the slow, deliberate movement, settling on the creamy expanse of thigh exposed as her skirt slid back toward her lap.  "But it's so much more fun this way.  Don't you think?"

He looked up sharply, his lips tightening. "Not sure I'd use the word 'fun.'"  He straightened up, taking a step back, and she knew she'd won this round.

She tugged the hem of her skirt back down to her knee and looked up at him with an innocent half-smile.  The spark of anger behind his dark eyes assured her she'd struck her mark.

"I've got to head out."

"J.B.'s waiting?"

His brow wrinkled.

"Bonnie said you were taking supper to J.B.  A friend?"

He shook his head.  "My dad."

There was a story behind the sudden current of sadness that drifted through his expression.  If small towns down here below the Mason-Dixon Line were like small towns up north, she'd hear that story before long.

It was one advantage she had over Wes Hollingsworth, she reflected.  What secrets he had, she'd uncover a whole lot sooner than he'd uncover hers.  Especially if he was looking for someone named Carly Devlin.

"YOU SHOULD HAVE COME with me to Aunt Bonnie's."  Wes placed a glass of iced tea on the table at his father's elbow.

J.B. made a growly noise and fumbled with his fork.  Ten years after the stroke, he still hadn't quite mastered eating left-handed.  His right hand had long ago curled into a useless claw, thanks to his refusal of any physical therapy.

"It's dead," he insisted whenever Wes tried to get him to try to exercises the therapist suggested to re-stimulate his paralyzed hand.  In a room at the back of the house, a couple of boxes full of peg boards, marbles, squeeze toys, all the things the therapist had suggested might help him relearn to use his crippled hand, lay covered with dust, untouched for years.