Roan (13 page)

She fell silent, but so did he. Glancing at him, she saw that his gaze was focused on the skin near her armpit, just under the side of her breast.

“This looks like an old scar,” he said, meeting her gaze with a look of perplexity as he touched the faint line that curved from under the shallow fold where her breast met her chest wall.

What he'd found was something most men of her circle would have accepted without question. She'd have expected, with his Southern gentleman mentality, that Roan would have been too polite to show his curiosity, much less comment, but apparently not.

“It is a scar.”

“It hardly shows at all,” he continued. “The surgeon did a good job.”

He continued to trace the path of the old pale incision from the edge of the sheet to the middle of her underarm area. The ticklish sensation brought on a ripple of gooseflesh that also hardened her nipples so their peaked outline became plain, mere inches away from his questing fingertips. She reached to shove his hand away so she could replace her sheet.

He didn't resist, but met her gaze while his own slowly darkened from curiosity to something more personal, and more vital.

He wanted her. The impulse was rigorously controlled, but plain in his widened pupils and tense features.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her fingers were suddenly nerveless so she fumbled as she pulled the sheet up and tucked it in above her breasts.

“It was cosmetic surgery, wasn't it?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

He wasn't going to give up. She swallowed, tempted to avoid the subject by pretending complete failure to remember. But she'd stretched her luck already with this man. It wasn't worth the risk. With an edge of bravado, she said, “Breast augmentation, at a guess.”

“A boob job?”

“Crude, Sheriff. Lots of women do it these days, and most men seem to appreciate it.”

“You mutilated yourself to please some man?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Who knows? Though isn't bigger always better in the male view?”

“Not in mine,” he said with finality.

“Really.” Her voice held dry disbelief.

“My dad always says much more than a handful of anything is pretty well useless. I figure he's about right.”

“Now there's a thought,” she drawled, in spite of the heat in her face. It was also a revelation, but she didn't intend to let him know that.

He watched her a considering moment before he said, “You can't have been very old or the scar wouldn't be so faded.”

“Probably still in high school,” she answered, giving him the truth without actually indicating remembrance.

“Jesus,” he said under his breath.

She tended to agree with that comment. The surgery had been a fashion trend among her classmates, a way of aping their mothers, joining the world of the sophisticated and the beautiful. She had always been a part of the popular crowd, ready to go along with the latest fad, anxious to keep up with her friends. They were all she'd had those long years in boarding school. Of course, Paul Vandergraff had considered it an excellent idea. Anything to keep her happy and out of his way.

“I suppose I did it to feel better about myself,” she said finally, “like most women.”

“More attractive?”

“Something wrong with that?”

He stood and picked up his first-aid kit. “You're a beautiful woman, and must have been a pretty girl. I can't believe you ever needed artificial help.” His voice deepened
to a velvety pitch. “You don't have to be perfect. The rest of the world sure isn't.”

It was an unexpected insight from a country sheriff. It was also a little behind the times. Voltaire had claimed that perfection was attained by slow degrees, requiring the hand of time, but that had been in another era. Most people today believed that youth and beauty were perfection and time demolished them. She could defend herself by claiming immaturity as her excuse, but that hadn't been all of it.

She had wanted attention. It hadn't mattered whether it came from her stepfather, her friends, or from the boys who had started hanging around the boarding school gates. She had craved it and would have done anything to get it. She'd outgrown that impulse, she thought, though it was impossible to be sure.

Roan was watching her through narrowed eyes, his gaze assessing. Critical. But what did she care what he thought? He wasn't a woman. He'd never been faced with the choices she'd had to make or the expectations.

“What are you staring at?” she demanded in acid tones. “Wondering if I've had a face lift, too. Well, I haven't. At least there are no scars to show it.”

He shook his head in slow negation. “I was just wondering if it's possible to find the real you under all the pretension.”

She sincerely hoped not. The real woman was a confused bundle of nerves, unsure what to do with the next few days of her life, much less the long years ahead. Not that she'd expect him to understand, of course. He didn't know her fear that she would turn out like her mother, locked away until she died of despair because no one loved her for what she was inside instead of what she looked like and what she owned.

Tory took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly as she said, “I doubt it.”

Roan hefted his first-aid kit, then turned and walked to the door. With his hand on the knob, he said quietly, almost to himself, “Now that's a shame. A real shame.”

T
he click of the light switch and sudden brightness dragged Tory from a sound sleep. She opened one eye. Roan stood just inside the room, looking freshly shaved and pressed and more alert than any man had a right to at that hour of the morning. She gave a heartfelt moan and reached to drag the sheet over her head.

“Coffee time,” he announced in grim good humor as he stopped beside the bed.

“This is the torture part, right?” she said from under the cover. “You think if you wake me every half hour, I'll break down and tell you all I know.”

“It was only a couple of times during the night.”

She flipped the sheet back to stare up at him. “You've got to be kidding. You marched in and out at least every hour.”

“It's my responsibility to see you get your antibiotic,” he answered in tones of supreme reason. “Besides, I had to check on you.”

“To make sure I was still here, I suppose.” As if she were going anywhere any time soon.

“And to be sure you weren't bleeding from where you
jarred your wound, that you haven't developed a fever—or fallen in the bathroom again.”

That reminder didn't exactly thrill her. “Thank you very much,” she said in muffled tones as she closed her eyes and turned on her side to burrow into her pillow. “I'm fine. Now go away.”

“Exactly what I'm about to do.”

An odd panic rose inside her. She was quiet long seconds as she fought it back. Then she opened her eyes again. “You're leaving?”

“I have a job to do. But don't worry. Jake will be here, and so will Cal. All you have to do is yell if you need anything.”

“I'm not worried,” she said automatically. It was a lie. She felt as if she were being deserted. And she didn't like the immediate realization of just how dependent she was becoming on this man.

“Good. Then you'll be all right.” The coffee cup he held rattled on its saucer as he set it on the bedside table.

She eased to her back again so she could see his face. His features were closed in, giving nothing away. He seemed different this morning, however, more reserved and official. It was a definite change from the man who had padded barefoot into her room during the night, with slumberous eyes, tousled hair, and wearing only a pair of jeans low on his hips. She liked that one much more than this buttoned-up lawman with his badge on his pocket and his weapon on his hip.

After a moment, she asked, “When will you be back?”

“Hard to say, depends on what's going on downtown. I'll check in from time to time.”

No doubt he would. But that didn't do much to help her feelings. “You have to go, I suppose?”

He tipped his head, studying her. “That almost sounds as if you'll miss me.”

His voice had an edge, she thought, as if he might suspect her of putting on another act. Whatever she had gained in the way of belief the day before was apparently gone this morning. Veiling her gaze with her lashes, she answered, “I didn't say that.”

“No, you didn't, did you?”

“Please,” she said, sighing as she ran the fingers of her good hand through her hair, “I'm not a morning person like you. I can't manage word games this time of day.”

“I'm a morning person only after a full a pot of coffee,” he returned. “Speaking of which, you'd better drink yours before it gets cold.”

With supreme effort, she pushed up to a sitting position. Roan moved to support her and put the extra bed pillow behind her back while she settled more comfortably. His courtesy made her feel ungracious. She murmured a polite thank you, adding as she took the cup he held out to her, “I do appreciate this, and all the rest during the night, even if I am grouchy about it.”

“Not to worry. Anyway, that'll be Jake's problem today.”

So it would be, she thought as she brought the coffee to her mouth. Somehow, playing the brave, beleaguered heroine with only the teenager for audience didn't promise nearly as much interest. Of course, she'd vowed to be the injured and helpless female around Roan, but that plan had lost its appeal. The bathtub incident had revealed unsuspected dangers to it.

“I think I ought to warn you about getting too friendly with Cal.”

The polite, even way he put it made it seem almost normal, but the taut line of his lips and determined stare at a
point ten inches above her head gave him away. “Do you indeed? What are you afraid of, that I'll seduce him?”

Roan dismissed that with a quick gesture. “What I'm saying is, Cal could be susceptible. You don't want that complication.”

“You're telling me I should be on guard against him, then.”

“I'm telling you not to try any tricks. Running them by me is one thing. Doing it with Cal might be something else again.”

She wanted very much to ask if he wasn't susceptible, at least a little. She didn't quite dare since the answer might not be good for her ego. At the same time, she had an almost uncontrollable urge to ruffle his neatly combed hair, loosen his tucked-in shirt, something, anything, to make this automaton more like the man she'd glimpsed now and then, the one who smiled and joked and made her feel better. It was almost as if he had two personalities, she thought; she wasn't the only person good at alternate identities.

As she remained silent, Roan went on. “Cal will be stationed outside the house. He shouldn't bother you under normal circumstances. Jake will bring your meals and medicine, don't worry about that. He's dependable, for his age.”

“Good for Jake.”

His gaze rested on the clamped set of her jaw a second. “I suppose I should ask if you had any revelations during the night?”

“Revelations? Oh, you mean about who I am.”

“Who you are, name, age, phone number, father, mother, brothers and sisters, anyone or anything else that might be useful.”

She pretended to search her mind before slowly shaking her head. “No one and nothing.”

“Not even a glimmer of a memory of the kind you almost brought back for Johnnie?”

She'd wondered when that slip would turn up. It seemed best, however, not to act as if it were a big deal. “Nothing.”

“Too bad. If you think of something, or have any other problem today, let me know immediately.”

He reached into his pocket and drew out a card, dropping it on the sheet beside her. Of quality white stock, it carried the contact numbers for his office in dark-blue lettering. She glanced at it, thinking it was just like the man who carried it: cleanly designed, straightforward, and without a shred of ostentation.

Speaking almost at random, she asked, “Are you expecting some kind of trouble?”

“I'm saying be careful, no more, no less. Cal's a good man. If he weren't, he wouldn't be on my team. But he needs no distractions. He's here for your sake, yes, but he's also looking out for Jake.”

The grim tone of the sheriff's voice carried a warning. He had arranged matters to prevent his son from being endangered by her presence in his home, and if she did anything to change the situation, the consequences would not be pleasant. She hated to think, then, what Zits and Big Ears might do if they found out that she was alone at Dog Trot with only a boy and a single deputy as guards.

It was a strange sensation, thinking of someone else's welfare. She wasn't used to it because there'd never been a need; she had no one to care about or protect. More than that, the majority of the people she knew thought only of their own comfort and convenience first as a matter of course. Any altruistic inclinations were satisfied with
money; they didn't sacrifice their comfort, would certainly never compromise the safety of their children.

“Maybe it would be best,” she said slowly as she watched the steam rise from her cup, “if I went with you, to your jail. After all.”

He was quiet so long that she risked a glance at him. A frown rested between his brows as if he were testing what she'd said, looking for reasons. As he met her gaze, he said, “I don't think so. Anyway, I'll be back in the middle of the afternoon, if not before.”

He turned and walked toward the door. She let him get halfway across the room before she called out, “Roan?”

He paused, turned slowly to face her again.

“Why are you doing this? I mean, keeping me here in your house, taking care of me?”

“I thought we settled that.”

“Did we? I remember something about unsuitable quarters at the jail and an irate hospital administrator, but that doesn't really explain it. Not many people would put themselves out this way.”

“It's nothing.”

“You take in all the people you shoot, is that it?”

His lips tightened. “There haven't been that many.”

“But I'm not the first. Why?”

“Maybe I feel responsible. Maybe I don't want you on my conscience if it turns out, by some off chance, that you're telling the truth. Maybe…”

“What?” She was gripping her coffee cup so hard her fingertips were numb, though she couldn't make herself relax.

“Maybe I'm a sucker for a hard-luck story and a pretty face.”

She laughed; she couldn't help it. The idea of him being
soft in any way was simply too far-fetched to credit. “Not likely.”

“Fine, what do you think of this?” he said, his gray eyes narrowing, “I just like the idea of keeping you as my private prisoner. I'm waiting for you to get well before I tell you exactly what I want with you.”

Something in his voice touched off a deep, internal shiver. What was it Cal had said?
Roan is the law in Tunica Parish—
Yes, that was it. But he didn't mean that literally. Did he?

“Sure you are,” she said in derision. “More than likely, you get paid more this way.”

His smile held no humor. “You'll have to wait and see, won't you?”

He swung toward the door once more as if he'd had enough of the conversation. It closed behind him with hardly a sound.

Disturbance lingered in Tory's mind as she went back over what they'd just said and also the events of the night before. Something was there, some intimation of truth, but she couldn't quite grasp where it began or ended.

She couldn't believe Roan Benedict was seriously attracted to her, a woman apparently everything he most despised. If he ever married again, it would be to some squeaky-clean country girl who wore Peter Pan collars, taught Sunday school, and knew ten ways to make meat loaf. He'd have no use for a poor little rich girl who couldn't make up her mind who she was and what she wanted, even when not pretending amnesia, and who had studied Cordon Bleu culinary arts so she could communicate with her stepfather's chef.

No, Roan's only purpose was to keep her secure; it wouldn't look good to the electorate if he lost a prisoner, especially if she escaped or was abducted from his own
home. He didn't trust her, didn't buy her story. He'd be considerate enough while she was under his roof, but that was merely to prevent her from making difficulties for him by trying to leave.

But what did his reasons matter? The result was the same; she was safe for the moment.

A wry smile curled one corner of her mouth. It was peculiar, when she thought about it. She felt more protected than she had in years while shut up here at Roan's house, when her greatest fear had always been that she'd wind up like her mother, locked away in an expensive rest home for the loony well-to-do. For a brief instant, she pondered the idea that she might have hit on the reason her mother had failed to protest her fate. Maybe she'd felt more secure in her rest home than outside it with her husband and daughter and fast-living friends. But no, that was impossible. Wasn't it?

Tory drained her coffee cup and turned to set it on the bedside table. As her gaze fell on Roan's card, she picked it up and sat tapping it against her bottom lip. So the gentleman thought he had her number, did he? Well, she also had his, as he'd soon discover. He'd made a serious error in bringing her here; he'd opened the door to his private life. She was getting better by the minute, her body stronger and her mind clearer. She was sure that she could worm her way into his home and family until he found it impossible to either indict her or return her to Florida. He would be her refuge and her shield for as long as she needed him. And afterward could take care of itself.

Jake brought her breakfast a short time later. As he plopped the tray across her lap, she waved him to a seat on the end of the bed. “Have you eaten? Join me, why don't you?”

“I—yeah, I already ate,” Jake said, wiping his hands on
the legs of his pants and looking as if he might break and run.

“Stay and talk with me, at least. I'm tired of staring up at the dumb-looking cupid in the tester.”

The expression on the boy's face retained its wariness, though he flicked a glance up to the ornament that secured the swath of heavy gold material above them.

“It's supposed to be old, the cupid, I mean. My granddad from back before the Civil War brought the bed all the way upriver from New Orleans. Lots of things were kind of dorky back then, but I guess they liked them that way.”

“Very likely,” she said, impressed by his matter-of-fact acceptance of the Victorian heirloom. “Actually, I was wrong to call it dumb. It's a nice enough cupid, or would be if I had something else to do besides go eyeball to eyeball with it.”

“I could maybe bring you some magazines,” he offered, flinging a glance at the door at the same time in a clear indication that he saw the errand as a means of escape.

“That would be wonderful. What kind do you have?”

“Huh, that might be a problem…”

Tory hid a smile as she watched the dull-red color creep up his neck. “Not girlie magazines?”

“Lord, no! Dad would ground me for life. Just stuff that wouldn't interest you.” He lowered his voice to a near mumble. “Livestock magazines, fishing, bow hunting. Like that.”